Allay My Troubled Self
by MinakoTrickster
Summary: Stephanie Brown died… and then she wasn't dead anymore. These events have created a change that leads Stephanie on a journey of self-discovery that starts in Africa, but takes a broken and damaged girl around the world to piece herself back together again.
1. A Journey Begins

Disclaimer: I do not own Stephanie Brown, Batman or other counterparts of the DC franchise. I make no profit off of this piece. No copyright infringement intended.

Warning: Mentions of torture and adult themes. Also, I have no beta. And I might be rusty in my writing, so I'm sorry for any awkward bits or slowness in the flow. I apologize for any mistakes you see.

A/N: I don't plan on using this every chapter, with that being said – this story is AU, Canon-divergent. Things we know of Steph before the New 52 or the Rebirth series, will have changes or I am taking major leeway with things that were never explored or explained. As for those who are of South Africa, I used a generator and some guides on how to write accents - thus the strange spelling is from that and not because I made those mistakes without meaning too.

I'm sure I have a few in here.

Multiverse, man.

I don't plan on rushing – nor can I stick to a timeline on updates. I am going to attempt at least twice a month due to a hectic schedule.

Mean time, enjoy.

* * *

She died. She knows she did. The way Dr. Leslie looks at her is only some distant proof, but the rest is rather…

Well, conclusive.

She remembers just gasping awake, a sheet covering her when she bolts up, feeling oddly stiff – almost as if she had been smothered; finally getting in a small amount of air. The cold metal of the table below her barely registers, but she's reaching down and tearing off that damn tag that is cutting off circulation to her toe!

She doesn't mean to actually look at what it says – didn't even give a flying fuck. Yet there the words are: her name, her weight, and some random ass series of numbers; a date and time of death. She still flicks the paper, and the string it had been attached via, to some random corner.

Because. Just fuck that.

The florescent lights are overly bright, the edges of her vision are rather dark, but she focuses on the random mad scramble of the doctor backing away from her – her whole body thumping against what sounds to be a metal door. Everything, however, becomes rather – blaringly – clear. There are tools; tools laid out that make her feel like turning over and throwing up. So, she does.

Nothing comes out, and it hurts. _Painfully encroaching_ hurt.

Dry-heaving is a torture all its own, with the stomach and throat burning with a decisive need to expel _something_ out of her. When she can't produce that something, her body decides to cause her pain; so it can wrench something out of her.

Her mind is on the tools. Tools, much like on the tray besides the cold metal bed she's on, whisper from a memory and come to her unbidden – used on her flesh.

" _Should have stayed in the kitchen, if you can't tell me something useful, bitch."_

Marks, she notes with absent awareness, litter her arms. They're red, angry, some are purple, with white stitch work, crisscrossing, keeping the scraps of flesh together. She doesn't look at the rest of her body to see the evidence when just those – innocent in comparison – bring up flashes of memories of just how they got there. She doesn't really need a reminder, she thinks, because she can feel them in a strange way. Almost as if they're old bruises that haven't faded away, just dulling into the yellow stages that have just a hint of irritation if she presses hard enough. Sweet aches that are horrible, _beautiful_ , reminders that she is not dead.

She's alive.

Her hip is pinching from her half-turned momentum, almost flaring with pulse points of –

 _A drill is digging into her hip and she can hear him moaning over the buzzing sound of the hardware. Dimly seeing the way he thrusts his hips each time he stabs the drill into some part of her._

"-a _ll you bitches are ever good for."_

She gasps, realizing she hadn't been breathing, and she is shaking. Despite the stiffness of her limbs, she feels like she's going to topple over like some of the cheap jello the lunch ladies gave out sometimes. Her stomach churns, staring down at the metal of her table, the white, bleached, linoleum flooring – reflecting with the lights overhead. The whiteness of the walls that make up the square room that barely has room for two living occupants, the table and the array equipment squeezed in here only seem to add to the brightness. God, did they want to blind people in here?

She almost wants to look around, almost, but then something interferes. _Goody_ , save this glutton for punishment, will you?

"Stephanie?"

Oh yeah, the doc.

The pain in her hip easies as she flips around, righting her body – yet she misses that pain. The doctor is no longer against the door, watching her like she is a ghost that is ready to devour her – she wants to crack a zombie joke, but knows that Leslie might not (read: _won't_ ) appreciate that. The good doctor is standing by the table, close enough that Stephanie can feel the doc's breath on her cheek, hands up and fingers curled. Digits twitching, opening, clenching, with the need to reach out or do something with those calloused tips. Extremities that have been used to stich, patch, soothe and slap an idiot or two when needed, never idle and hesitant – it almost unnerves the blonde teenager when they hover close, tentative. Steph wasn't quite sure what the doc might want to do to her, though,

Probably a wallop of a slap, if Steph was in a guessing mood.

Which, she isn't.

But the woman is just standing there, silent after calling out her name. White hair, streaking with random bits of gray, was pulled up and back into a bun that was falling apart. Old eyes, kind eyes – looking to cloud with tears – are staring down at Stephanie with equal parts horror, disbelief and happiness. Leslie was never a beauty, for sure, but she was a tough old bird that Stephanie had admired, known since she had been old enough to run away from home since she was five. A lady who didn't put up with a lot of people's shit; with the people who always came into her clinic, it worked for her.

Should she say something?

Steph might have died – uh, did die – but she wasn't so lost as to know that she was usually the girl with a mouth. Two of her biggest flaws: chatterbox disposition and the inability to just stay down. Knows, normally, she'd be spouting off some smart-off retort… Yet, she can't seem to get her throat working. Her esophagus scorches, all the way down her chest and into the pit of her stomach, coiling uncomfortably. Her tongue feels swollen, dirty and heavy – as if she had dirt stuffed into her mouth. Her teeth feel gritty, harsh against her tongue. She parts her lips, but the skin feels taunt, dry and nothing but a subtle breath escapes her.

Her breath stinks, she notes. Unbidden, a joke about something dying in her mouth pops up – but even she is discarding it as if it prickles on her conscious.

Too soon, maybe?

"SAY SOMETHING!" Hands hit the metal table, those fists – Leslie finally found some use for that twitching. Her scream is haggard, a burst of anguish that nearly replaces the dirty feeling on Stephanie's tongue. She is, however, left with a sour taste.

Though the sudden scream was loud, harsh and a surprise – Stephanie didn't flinch. She was startled, but not a single bit of her moved, taking in the hunched shoulders of the older woman now. The inescapable sense of being a voyeur creeps up on her as she recalls never seeing this side of Leslie, use to a strong, not-putting-up-with-your-shit doctor. It brings about unease to see this vulnerability and Stephanie wants to curtain her own face with her long hair, but doesn't seem to have the ability to look away. The tremble in the lines of strong shoulders that have held up the darkest of Gotham's shadows, healing Gotham's hurts - Stephanie looks away, not wanting to see someone who had been a pillar to her fall. Sharp breaths, quick and trembling, fill the space. Leslie's hair, the farce of a bun finally caving, to fall around the doctor's face after the emotional bubble implodes – as if drained and left in a weakened state. Strong, calloused knuckles are white as they grip the metal table – the sides of her hands already bruising with the force she exerted.

Steph forces herself to talk.

"You have weird bedside manner, doc." She wanted the words to come out flippant, easy-going, but they don't. It hurt to say, her gullet felt raw and pinched. Her voice sounded like the proverbial nails on a chalkboard, screeched and haunting. It was more than she wanted to say, she hadn't wanted to say shit, but she needed to for the doc.

For herself.

She almost regrets saying it. A tension tightens in her, glowing hotly as it spreads outward and infects the air. The atmosphere is heavy, stinks with something that nearly makes her gag, but she holds it back in lieu of keeping her eye on the good doctor – and because it would hurt like a bitch.

Leslie's shoulders have drawn together, constricting inwards to her body. White, hoary hair was still obstructing any view of the older woman's face. Steph had the suspicion – fuck that, she _knew_ – that Leslie had been crying. Now, she wasn't and Stephanie couldn't decide if it was a good thing.

Knotting, rigid – everything felt as if there was a subtle trap that could easily be sprung. Steph didn't breath, didn't dare, afraid of whatever button she had her proverbial finger – didn't want to give or take the pressure for whatever the fuck was going to explode in her face. She was far to use to having something sprung on her.

She didn't have a mirror, but she remembers taking a few (a shit ton) of hits to the face.

She almost jumped, felt fucking relieved to know she wasn't that _dead_ to not react, when Leslie did look up at her. The silver at her temples stood out, almost defying gravity in the contrast to the rest of her hair that fell around her shoulders. Wet, tear tracks left their mark on pale, sallow cheeks. The wrinkles around Leslie's sharp, silver-green eyes were wet and the whites of her eyes were bloodshot. Lips red, twisted in a snarl that transformed Leslie's entire face – teeth smashed into her bottom lip, "How?"

The question was hissed, dangerous and Stephanie felt numb – staring into a face that was broken, hurt; utterly dangerous to behold. She didn't... fell much of anything, though, didn't feel a particular grievance for causing such a look on the old gal's face. She felt empty though, gazing back into a face that had been one of the final few when she thought she flat-lined.

No, no, she did flat-line. Can't be forgetting that kind of shit anytime soon.

"HOW?!" The tray was knocked aside, instruments, tools and the table upon which they sat on, went down. The metal gave little dings, the wheels on the table squealed, scrapping sounds of objects sliding across the cheap floor rang in the dim afterglow of the impassioned plea.

A desperate, forlorn plea that stretched, echoing in the sudden silence that followed from both actions.

Something itched in her throat, pressing upwards and out, nearly blocking her airway. Her flesh felt wrong, tainted and sweltering there; she felt a need to reach up, to tear at the dermis. She nearly jumped off the table when cold, clammy hands gripped her own. Brows rising when she realized her hands were at her throat, ready to do just that but for the strong, trembling grip that held her own. Her nails were pinpricks of sharp incisors.

She let go, but the grip on her hands stayed.

Not wanting to think about it, she directed her gaze into those sharp eyes she had seen plenty of times even before her involvement with the Batman. The face no longer twisted, but drawn, jaw clenched and failing to stop the tremble of thin lips. It felt like there was a balance of extremes, swishing back and forth from hot to cold, back again. Steph began to worry if bi-polar disorders were contagious.

Or if dying really was that much of a roller coaster of emotional spewing.

"I don't know." The words hurt, just like the ones before had. They wanted to strangle her with the croak of their appearance, raising hell through her mouth and on her tongue with their reluctance to come forth. Yet, she felt the tension ease, the unyielding force of desperation dissipating from the air and her shoulders went lax.

Leslie's did too.

And Stephanie found herself smooshed, compressed against the body of the strong – deceptively thin – woman. Her, now, trembling body was locked in an embrace that was as fortified as the woman was, had been, when faced with the underbelly of Gotham's poor, sick and weak. A hand pressing down on Stephanie's head, forcing her to bury her face into a cold, sweat-stenched neck. Leslie's nails were cutting into her back, but they were a rather stark welcome compared to the pulsing niggles that took up the rest of her body, persistent reminders of the cause of her death.

"It's a damned miracle." Stephanie mutters out, rasping, lips against Leslie's pulse and with the tardy insight that the itching in her throat is gone – she's crying.

Leslie's form quivers and the both of them are laughing, hollowly, but laughing as they cry.

* * *

Africa was different from Gotham – she found that both disheartening and refreshing.

Or rather, Cape Town was rather different than Steph's original impression of Africa. She was use to pictures of the Savannah with wide open plains, tall wheat-colored grass and trees that curled with a flat top, nearly singular with a setting sun and a rock formation with animals herding together in a nearly peaceful, majestic look that the photographer captured.

Nor was it like any of the small villages she had been told about, even had seen pictures of, with the mud and grass of a circular shape, with a roof tipped point. Buildings cloistered close with fire pits and small little trails, spits hanging over the fires to roast whatever the catch of the day was. Baskets being weaved or placed on a woman's head as she carried about fruit or pottery filled with water from a local watering hole. The natives naked besides a few pieces of brightly colored cloth weaved by skilled, practiced hands.

Her history classes hadn't prepared her for anything like this. Suddenly, for someone who felt like they weren't that ignorant, this made her realize how short-sighted she actually was.

A port city on South Africa's southwest coast, Cape Town was on a peninsula just below Table Mountain (jokes for days about that). Boats and docks lined along a harbor, leading way into a bustling, pretty city that had an exotic charm of airiness so different from the heavy air that surrounded Gotham. Roads paved the way through the city and cable cars climbed, circled, to the flat top of the nearby mountain that seemed to cushion against the backside of the budding metropolis, with a chain of that curling inwards to make an extended reach outwards. There were no huts, just houses and rising buildings that did not make quite an impressive height though, Stephanie forgets she shouldn't judge. This isn't Gotham and not much could compare to Gotham's high rises. Still, the architecture and distinguished looks to the buildings were impressive for this part of the world. Steel, iron, concrete – similar like smaller towns that peppered off out of Gotham's main hub of a city, still an urbanized district with its own pretty merit. There was so much greenery that was left untouched, hugging around the mountain arm and spreading outwards from the city, even curling around some of the design in a harmonic display of nature and man-made art.

And she felt like an ignorant schtick because of it.

She was only given a day, a single day, to explore the place and she had designs to possibly see it again. After that, they were moving off with the rest of the missionaries for other parts of Africa to traverse villages and rural pastures that fit more with the pictures she was given of Africa, alternating between jeeps, buses and hummers to travel. There were supplies packaged into a bus, filled with food, water, clothes, medical supplies and tents for whenever they set up.

Leslie had given her books on anatomy, some with medical practices and procedures as she began learning the practicality of being a nurse or a medical assistant to the doctor.

Living in Gotham, one had to know the basics of medical first aid – if not more. Steph also had the added benefit of learning a few things from Alfred, her mother's pill-popping/nursing career and helping Dr. Thompkins in the clinic before her vigilante days, sometimes even after. That gave her an added kick of interest in her anatomy class, an elective that almost seemed borderline requirement due to all the freaks that liked to use Gotham as their home turf.

In this, she was not a master, but she was certainly skilled enough to get some boost in what role she would play.

Browsing through the one of Thompkins's books, she glanced up, feeling eyes on her and espied the driver looking at her through the review mirror. She quirked a brow, infusing as much _bitch-please_ in that one action as possible, but he still stared. Clearing her throat seemed to not dissuade the guy either.

"You gonna make us crash?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended, brows lowering. Her throat no longer hurt, but she had bruises that colored her all over in a lovely mimic of camouflage gone wrong. But he was staring right back and the teen knew well enough why.

After waking up from death, she hadn't been too concerned with her physical appearance (you know, torture and shit) until Thompkins wouldn't stop staring at her. There were a series of tests Stephanie went through; to double check she wasn't really dead any longer. And no, a heartbeat wasn't the only indication of changing her death status.

Side note: she warned Leslie she forever had rights to call the doctor a mad scientist. **Young Frankenstein** quotes will never end.

Oxygen plays a role in the lively hood of tissue and other functions to make the body a living entity. Sudden death, for instance, would mean there is a lack of air and this has an effect on the massive collection of cells, when deprived of oxygen they can't burn the oxygen – used to create energy. When cells can't get that oxygen, it's called acidosis – generating acid that kills cells and sends toxin to the bloodstream. So one can say bye-bye to blood cells and other tissue formations.

Because of the lack of blood cells, the heart will stop and that means blood stops flowing and clots parts of the body. Known as livor mortis because it's Latin for blueish, and because wherever the clotting happens, usually whatever part of the body is closes to the ground, it makes the surrounding body parts bluish-purple. When Stephanie had woken up, her back was a mess of bluish-purple and so was her feet… yet cleared to a yellow hours after waking up.

That wasn't normal, of course, but neither was waking back up after being dead for nearly a whole day.

There were other stages of death, but one Leslie – and Stephanie felt inclined to agree with – was one of the reasons that Stephanie hadn't remained permanently dead - or so they believed as the only logical reason. The brain is considered a mass of nerves with electrical activity, constantly on going and never halting unless one is truly, truly dead. The monitors that one might find beside their bed, besides the one monitoring one's heart, one of them is administering an electroencephalography test, determining if the neurons of the brain are still firing in order to send commands to organs, like the heart and liver to keep working. According to the machines, Steph died, but there was no other way that Steph being alive now could be possibly if some neurons weren't still possibly active. Perhaps too few that the test never picked them up. Yet were able to pull through and restart Steph's body? It was hard to fully comprehend, but still one of the only working, viable theories both were able to agree on.

Leslie once said something about magic.

Steph was just going with, "I'm a tough bitch who doesn't know when to stay the fuck down."

Both had merit, but neither the other believed was likely.

Going back to the whole oxygen thing, as that also can affect the heart and brain – it also affects the temperature of the body. Without air the body's temperature drops to room temperature as it slowly losses heat from the outside, working inwards to put the body under algor mortis. The flesh and face of the dead person begins to change with lack of air. The face dulls to a yellow, a grey and then to a bluish-black with the jaw falling open and then locking into place with the inability to close and why a lot of people, in ancient civilizations, got away with putting coins or shit as offerings in the mouth of their dead.

The thought almost brings Stephanie to hurl when she recalls the way her mouth felt after her 'reawakening'.

The reason the mouth locks open is because of how the muscle tissue solidifies. Sure, after someone kicks the bucket, the body goes limp but the muscle tissues are beginning to freeze in place. The body is filled with lactic acid waste which threads through the muscles, no longer discharging, and begins locking everything into place. The rigor mortis stage, as it were.

While the flesh, after dying, goes blue and after rigor mortis sets in, the tissues begin to get digested by enzymes, releasing dying cells. The skin begins to get creamy white because of the autolysins of this stage. This correlates to the inner bacteria that, upon death, usually begin to work on internal organs in a process of putrefaction, which normally means that the abdomen swells with bacterial waste and organs would be popping, leaving the body to collapse and dry up – leading to a smell. Ever heard the term, 'something smelled like it died'? There is a reason that term exists, it's a really disgusting, rotten stench of the wastes the body was beginning to be filled up with.

It is because of how her body seemed to – and they checked, they have x-rays to prove this – skip a lot of these steps that had them agreeing to the possible theory that Steph's heart might have given out, but her brain hadn't in order to escape the many symptoms of death. Though Leslie swore up and down that Steph's face blew up and her jaw locked open, she hadn't gotten to see the final aspect of popped organs just before Stephanie woke up.

And Steph wanted to believe that her organs didn't pop and she didn't have shit in her stomach piling up, because that was gross. Just. Fucking. Gross. Ask Leslie, they checked that too.

 _JUST GROSS!_

However, despite how her stint with death didn't take there was one aspect of death that was still very much with Steph and had gained her a large amount of notice. She covered up her eyes as much as possible with sunglasses – was in the works of getting some contacts, but when she was reading it seemed dumb to keep them on.

When dying, the eyes are also affected and is one point of indication that someone is beyond saving, i.e. totally screwed. The eyes normally flatten slightly and turn milky – much like the zombies in a movie where the eyes roll up into the back of the head. However, her eyes are not rolled to the back of her head and were their round, pretty shape.

Like mentioned, Leslie had had a preoccupation with Steph's once vibrant, blue eyes. A mirror provided and bam, she had pale, icy hues that nearly looked white. Almost as if she was a blind person who lost pigmentation in the pupil with the loss of vision and damage to the optic nerves. Steph saw clearly though, no loss of sight – she believed her vision was better than before she bit the proverbial dust.

The driver was a native of South Africa, "You ave stwange eyes, lady." He spoke with his accent tinge, sounding quite gruff and yet beautiful with his words. Not many spoke English better than that, not unless they actually infected the English accent into their words – which a few of the guards and guides of their party could. Stephanie preferred the way the driver spoke and has no qualms admitting it was because she liked the sound of accents. He was lightly tanned, Caucasian in appearance but for the broadness of his nose and the curly, fizz of his closely cropped hair. Likely interracial parentage. His eyes were a pretty hazel, but narrow beneath thick brows of a man who was use to judging people from the shape of his shrewd eyes. A scar littered down his right cheek and into the corner of his lip, the under bite larger and sticking out in comparison to his upper lip that seemed to tuck in. The rest of his body was scarred, no doubt, a tan, leather hunter's hat atop his head and a canvas shirt that had her sweating just looking at it. The guy had large forearms, though she couldn't see his upper arms, she had a strong belief they were also muscled due to the life the guy led if he said he was usually a guard for things like this – had been for the past ten years.

"I like to think they make me otherworldly." Blithely, she intoned with infection of uncaring teenage arrogance – not that hard to do when she was both. She pursued her lips, watching him roll his eyes and turn back to watching the dirt road – several miles out of Cape Town and she was already seeing signs of the Africa she had imagined before Cape Town popped that bubble. The windows were open, letting in a faint breeze that cooled at her flesh – a peaches 'n cream tone, thank you very much. Her body was still littered with bruises, the peaches aspect was just small splotches between the landmarks of yellow, purple and blue. When asked, she and Leslie mostly told the group that she had been an abuse victim and needed to get away for a while.

You know, not that that wasn't entirely untrue, but it was too easily accepted and Stephanie wondered just how often they had seen something like this.

"Stwange contagts you Yanks do." The tone was somewhat scathing, rolled in with a snort and Steph could imagine the scoff he wanted to do, but pressed her lips together to keep her own snort of amusement in. She didn't take offence since she didn't think it was anything on purpose on his end, he told them to call him Mall. He rolled his eyes and Steph was sure she would have won a bet if she had put money down on him being more bemused by the strange trends that teens and Yanks, a term for Americans, do. The way he said certain words did occasionally get her stuck and tickle her funny bone.

"Contacts, yeah." She shrugged one shoulder, willing to go with that one since a lot of people – like that prissy flight attendant before that eight hour nap she took – had been assuming that was what it was. Doc thought it was easier to just go with such a ruse too.

But Mall didn't seem like he was in the mood to talk anymore, glancing to her left at a pointed look from Leslie and Steph decided to go back to remembering where the hip bone was connecting to the thigh bone. She wouldn't tell Leslie it like that though, the woman wasn't pulling her hits on a bruised up teen.

* * *

Stephanie nearly believed, because of the dirt roads and the open spaces, that Cape Town would likely be the only major city they stop at. Though it was not the only one of its like, as Leslie gave her books to read up on Africa, there were other similar forms of civilization sporting across Africa. Still, the books were a great addition, though Stephanie had never been a big reader, in learning and knowing where they would be travelling along South Africa; making their way north while zig-zagging across the continent for their journey. She knew that they had planned for a year here, Leslie made it seem as if the trip could have taken longer than that if they sought to do so.

The idea was far too appealing and Stephanie shoved the thought away, for now.

South Africa, basically the whole bottom tip of the continent, is called the Republic of South Africa, stretching along the south Atlantic and to the Indian Ocean with northern neighbors like Namibia, Zimbabwe and Botswana; eastern countries of Swaziland and Mozambique to cushion in the area. As the twenty-fifth largest country in the world by land area it is the twenty-fourth most populous nation with an average of fifty-six million people living within the borders. Eighty percent of the population have Sub-Saharan African ancestry with a diversity of other ethnic groups that speak the Bantu languages – yet the rest of the population consists of European, Asian and multiracial ancestry. A multi-ethnic society that displays a wide variety of cultures, languages and religions. In short, it is a great first stop, as Leslie said. Amongst their party were people who could speak the eleven languages that were recognized within the region and whom have offered to teach Steph.

Effective flirting nature: Activate!

One of the reasons the RSA was the best starting points was that it was one of the few countries in Africa that had never had a coup d'état with regular elections held for a century, though it was not until 1994 that the black majority would seek to recover their rights from the dominate white minority. The evens did play a vital role with the country's recent history and politics with many discriminatory laws beginning to be repealed or abolished from 1990. The laws were still in the works on removing discriminatory legislation, however. There are, at current, political representation in the country's democracy for each ethnic and linguistic group; that plays a role for their little band while they travel.

If tensions were on the rise, especially between whites and blacks then it would be best for the party to avoid those areas due to the amount of violence that would likely break out and needlessly endanger the party - or innocent civilians. There is such a thing as diplomatic immunity, but there are some parties, when trying to make political statements, that might not care that they were from America and not one of the European colonist descendants. Stephanie would be learning to keep her ear to the ground while trying to better understand just how these different structures of economics, politics and social structures could affect their journey. As it stands, the RSA is considered an upper-middle-income economy with their industrial era kicking into gear though poverty and inequality still remains widespread and might end up easing them into what they might see for the rest of their journey.

On a good note, she had already learned at least twenty words in a foreign language! Yay! Her Spanish teacher can suck it.

Probably helped she had to often ask where the bathroom was, too. How to order waffles… and curse words counted, don't listen to Leslie.

* * *

Muyexe, a village that reflected most of the places where they would be working, was a poor village in the Limpopo Province in South Africa with a lack of basic services such as water, electricity, proper roads and proper structure housing. Rural landscapes led to a local farming community that was seeing laborious days with barely a tool or tractor to aid in the overall output of crop to what the farmer put into the work. Sometimes even a mule was not able to be provided for when food was scarce and the upkeep for the animal, already in poor conditions, would just ensure the animal dies – possibly too diseased to even eat. Their own group was travelling with another unit that was sending relief to the farmers with the providing of tractors or other agricultural equipment to both help with circulating economy by giving the farmers a helping hand. One of the boys teaching Stephanie one of the Bantu languages was driving the gleaming green machine, though it was not top model, it was a working one with additional supplies added to keep it running for the farmer over the course of a year. It is to the hope of Comprehensive Rural Development Programme, or the CRDP, that the boost will help get basic services to many of the households in the village – in the meantime the bible thumpers will preach god, she, Dr. Thompkins and a variety of others will be providing medical services and others will be staying in the village to teach the local boys and girls.

The crates filled with water, food, clothes and blankets within the many vehicles were already sequestered to a certain quota of filling the needs of the population of the village, which was already recorded via the number of births/death ration - mostly estimations because of poor bookkeeping. Trucks, vans and buses that lined up along the dirt road, progressed to the village with dust kicking up and forcing car windows close. Stephanie stared out of the dusty cloud to the desolate village that looked to be made out of dirt, shanty buildings and garbage. A cluster of the population was already coming out of their homes, waving to the trucks with what Steph could only assume to be of welcome with a midday sun beating down on a mishmash of dark and light flesh, young to old and the breeze tugging on ragged, dirty clothing – if any was worn at all.

It is just one of many, but Stephanie throws herself into the work and the people with a gusto she has always had within her. She buries herself in her studies, in communicating with the villagers and the experience this offers her. She will continue this throughout her journey.

* * *

When Stephanie thinks of home she feels oddly empty. She misses it, she does and she has a desire to return one day, but when Leslie puts forth the suggestion of their return after their year in Africa - initially Stephanie puts it to the side, but the thought lingers. When the blonde teen thinks of home, there is a bit of discontent with the idea.

She buries herself in the culture of the villages they visit, instead.

Stephanie runs with the people of various villages, learning how her footwork can launch her from space to space quicker, how she angles her shoulders against the wind can create less resistance – she is bitten with a bug to feel and see how the wind would touch her if she were to travel further East or North. When she climbs the highest point of the trees, using her years of gymnastics to move from branch to branch, learning from the locals that her toes would be her greatest ally in defeating gravity – she wants to climb higher, feeling her breathing get less and less taxing as she heals, as she learns and as she gains a flexibility not offered in any gym.

She learns the veins of the body, how best to stop bleeding from a knife wound or a lion attack. She learns how to shoot little, powerful pistols to the long and deadly shotguns. She encourages a cute, local village boy to teach her how to fish using a spear, to fashion weapons with little to no tools, and endears a few of the elders to teach her ways on how to track.

 _She remembers tracking her father, how to track others – a tool that has aided her in her earliest crime fighting experience. A skill she had before she began working with Batman and Robin._

She thought she was good, taking lessons from an elderly grandfather she knows is no longer around. She knows the skill, but feels more than happy to refresh. Tracking both humans and animals, the different approaches to determine the number of an opponent's forces, to employ marksmanship, tactics and fieldcraft in order to become the predator. She retrains her brain by repeatedly going on hunting forays with the villagers. She uses the way tracks are positioned to determine which direction her prey is going, to notice how pressure can make one part of the footprint/paw print deeper to best determine intentions. Insight, an empathy or understanding of the prey helps – and that comes with study.

She has had most of her life to understand the crook her father was and those of his ilk, likely part of why she was able to find herself in the thick of things.

She learns to read the signs of an area, to understand their purpose – eating, sleeping or hunting in order to anticipate their needs and wants. To beat the prey to the endgame before they can even reach it themselves. Similar methods can apply to humans, to learn if they know they are being followed or have no idea you're coming. If they feel the threat of your presence in the way they leave their tracks. She learns to see the surroundings through her quarry's eyes to where she is no longer following them, but can predict and cut them off at the pass. Using the tells to read the signs, to identify markers both purposefully made and not so.

She is a natural, it seems.

She helps hunt down wild boars for a feast, creating the hide into a blanket for one of the newborns to chase away the chill of the nights. She learns to best kill animals with mercy, especially as old age grips them or injury cripples them. She makes a waterskin from the bladder of the cow, learning to sew pieces together from cotton hand strung into string or from the tail hairs of mules and horses. She learns to make traps and how to hide them from both the people who seek to raid a village (Stephanie was _terrified_ the first time it had happened, but use to dangers) to the animals that would try to prowl into homes at night. Snares are precious while deadfall traps have come in handy.

Months have passed, but Stephanie has not actively sought to keep count, but she remembers faces, different sunrises and sunsets. The many miles on a road, hours in a tent of comfort or beneath the sun's gaze as she hunts, gathers and tracks with the villagers. It is one of these villages, with the lack of water – where men wear flaps and women are topless- that Stephanie meets someone who can feel the growing wanderlust in her. Embraces Stephanie and all her damage.

 _It is both scary and beautiful._

When she tells anyone this story, she is going to insist she had been minding her own business. She was not fighting two guys whom had cornered a girl, poachers that felt the thrill of victory from killing whoever once had tusks of ivory, bloody ivory that was barely cleaned from a fresh kill - because what comes next will make her seem crazy.

Stephanie had only noticed the odd tracks; boot prints not the like of any of those travelling with her or those from the village. The tire tracks were easier to spot in the mud, having rained earlier in the day, with mud thrown around and kicked up in a way that no animal ever did. The large tusks were glaring reminders that some people just don't give a shit, barely hidden under a tarp.

She didn't pull the plastic covering off, backtracking instead – she is glad she did. The girl is crying and Stephanie realizes (just as she did before putting on the Spoiler outfit) that her years of fighting, the months of learning from villagers and the guards had more than prepped her to get behind the two men with very little sound.

 _She is predator and they the prey._

She had a mean right hook that she had before the Bat. He just helped her make it deadlier. The first one goes down with little fuss while the other guy, scrawnier and taller, is sneering and acts like he'll backhand her. She lets him.

It was the only hit she allowed him. So worth it when his eyes widen as she smashes a fist into his solar plexus, using those array of nerves in the pit of his stomach to send a message (anatomy and Dr. Thompkins books making little suggestions on where best to hurt him and how to do it effectively). He looks like he got it, but isn't happy about it. A high kick has his head snapping backwards, a chin already forming a bruise and he goes down for the count with his head hitting a rock on the shore, Stephanie is kind of glad. She is going to make sure he's alive, but only after she takes care of the girl…

But the girl isn't a girl anymore, but an older woman sitting serenely at the edge of the water and her back to it. A large, red dress covers the woman, flowing in the water and dancing with the current, strings slither like baby snakes, dark hair is streaked with gray and flayed about as if in a torrent of wind; volume that doesn't wish to adhere to the laws of physics. Her hair is kept out of her face by a frayed looking red cloth that looks to be made of a similar fabric and shading of her crimson dress. The sun is low, sneaking into evening and the water reflects the light like sparkles behind her.

Stephanie feels enchanted and, yet, spooked as she eyes the woman. The woman's features are cast in shadow because of both the position of the sun and the reflection of the water behind her. Shoulders are slim and nearly peeking out of the neck of the cloth she wears, leaving freckled, caramel skin to be ogled.

The blonde teen shivers, aware that the sense of being spooked is not from just the strange woman herself, but that in the shadow depths there is a pair of milky, blue eyes glowing from it – much like her own. Just without the glow, Stephanie is sure; otherwise Leslie might have told her.

She hopes the doctor would tell her. That would have been an awesome prank at some point.

Otherwise, Stephanie is sure she is freaking out because she is very – _very_ \- sure she had been looking at a teenage girl. A girl with dark hair and dark skin, crying her eyes out with similarly dark eyes and a slight mattering of scars on her upper arms.

See Batman, she can notice shit too.

This woman was not whom she had rescued. A look up and down the small river revealed no sign of the girl, though. Just the pointed ends of where the river bends in and out of sight, obscured by mud, rocks and the sparse few trees.

"You want to see much of the wo'ld, Stephanie Bwown. A destiny to fight with a sp'it like yoa's." The woman's laughter tinkles, spreading through Stephanie and makes her insides feel tingly and cold. The old woman tilts her head, those eyes crinkling as if she knows.

Perhaps she does.

"Who are you?" Stephanie asks, the woman spoke English, but heavily accented like many other South African's who could speak English. She does not speak with demand, but caution as she recalls the news – a father who gives away her life to the world, dead or not. A father who doomed her mother with retribution taking a cleaning Crystal Brown from this world. She feels the bitter undertone in her question.

Still, it seemed like an important question.

The woman tilts her head in the opposite direction, much like a bird studying an odd specimen, and Stephanie gets a good view of seeing that wild-mane go all aside; yet staying perfectly like a giant arch that reminds her of Old Lady Hackmore from **Earnest Scared Stupid**. Stephanie tilts her head the same way, squinting her eyes and believes that, yeah, the woman kind of has that same hunched over build even while sitting, "Kindwed."

Took Stephanie a second, "Huh?" She doesn't bother to hide her befuddlement, but that lady is laughing that same tingling induced laughter as if she expected it.

"You a' meant fo' fight, stwong sp'it of will," the woman raises a hand and is pointing a long, delicate looking finger with a black, elongated fingernail. There are wrinkles in the knuckles, but the rest of the finger looks smooth, "Wanda', leawn and eal."

Silence lends to the ear, but the hand and pointed digit remained focused on Stephanie. She doesn't know about strong will right now, since she feels like she has none to move.

"I am healed; healing is all going on up in here." The blonde teenage waves a hand over herself, looking mostly yellow and pink scar tissue lining her body. The blue and purple gone after so many months, but Stephanie doesn't remember when that was.

The woman shakes her head furiously, the wild hair flaying eagerly and snapping in the air as if each strand was a hissing snake, wiggling in protest at the lightest touch of air, "No, body will eal. Sp'it, soul, need to eal." The woman stops shaking her head and peers at Stephanie with narrowed eyes, "You a't, deepa' - pain added and added with yeaws. Child, small, need to shed pain. You will build yoa' awmo' anew and fage yoozself."

Unbidden, flashes of her father throwing her in a closet come to mind. The screaming of her drug-induced mother, their fights echoing over her own cries. The sharp hungers of pain, the stings of cuts and bruises as lies fall from her lips. Her father's partners reaching for her. Her babysitter touching her. Tim with other girls. The depression and sleeping with Dean. Batman and his words, how she wasn't good enough and how the words echo alongside the voice of her father, of Dean and Tim. She swallows, but it is dry and she licks her lips, feeling how arid they were.

She feels shadows of hands, shame sweeping over her and tearing into her flesh as laughter echoes in her ears. The Birds of Prey, their grudging teaching of her and dropping her, echo Batman's words of how she doesn't have what it takes. The shouts of her gymnastic teacher bellowing how she'll never compare to others, the jeers of slut echoed with her mother's words, before she was sober again. Her own thoughts, always thinking how she wasn't good enough for Robin – Alvin Draper. How he found out everything about her but was never allowed to know him, but she accepted it – believed she just hadn't proven herself to him. Tim's face after she found out who he was, his anger – the way he looked at her when all she did was find out his name and went to see him. The grudging feeling that she was right, she was beneath him and he didn't want someone like her in his life, out of the shadows. Cass, her best friend and biggest support, always punching her lights out to stop her from fighting, admitting – in the end – she didn't think Stephanie was good enough.

She wasn't good enough for a crook like her father, why would anyone else want her?

Stephanie hadn't cried in the months she had been here, helping administer shots, learning tracking, fighting, running, studying medicine and medical procedures from Thompkins and others – not since she woke up alive once more in that small, white, sterile room. Where she let her old life stay, like she was shedding it from her like a second skin.

A lie, because she wrapped it around herself like a fur coat of dead things, hiding deeper in their folds.

A sob wrenched from deep within her, pushed out and piled the shame, the burning anger that suffused itself beneath her skin. Deceit and agony scorching her wounds, both physical and unseen. Her throat hurt anew and she screamed with broken hearted rage, trembling ache; despondent tenderness twisting to bleed back into her ears. It sends her knees to the ground, too much to stay standing. Thin arms wrapped around her, the scent of mulberry, dirt and something uniquely wild surrounded her as tears blurred her vision from the rest of the word. Her own arms found a thin frail body cushioned beneath miles and miles of fabric, clutching.

She felt like she was dying all over again.

Her wounds flared with distress, sharp and the coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils – she was back in that room, Black Mask standing over her; he was surrounded by the shadows. She can make out forms, those of peers, of mentors and figures she had reached for blindly. Amongst them, she sees her own face. Covered in tears, laughing maniacally and twisted in a monstrous image as it sneered down at her, _'You thought you could be someone? We're trash, we're shameful! No one wants us, we don't even like ourself!'_

She felt as if she was slammed physically, her chest hurt and pain ran through her nerves to touch every point of her, trying to sweep her away. But then there were arms/ Arms that anchored her, gripping her back fiercely, stopping her from drowning as the words were said to her, as history plays behind her lids, as her own incriminations whisper scathingly in her mind.

"Nginakho, omuhle. Phulukisa, uphulukise futhi ukhale futhi uqale ukuqinisa." The words caught her ear, different from the English of her shadows, the shapes of those whom surround a broken girl who just wanted to be seen, to be loved and be found worthy of _something_. Love, affection, trust, wonder, but to stop being looked at as if she was lacking, never enough.

 _ **I have you, pretty. Heal, heal and cry and begin to strengthen**_. The language of Zulu, one of the eleven languages spoken in South Africa, one of the languages she was learning and it had never sounded so uplifting. She gasped, gasped like she did when she first awoke after dying and found new life breathed into her lungs.

It was a start.


	2. Stitching Pieces

Her name is Amahle and she died once too.

After that emotional break down, Stephanie didn't recall the rest of the night. The blonde teen had no recollection of blacking out, walking back to the camp or anything else besides the raw gush of emotion that had filled her to the brim, stretching her skin and scratching her from the inside-out. She remembers the outpour of it all, just draining every bit of pent up sensation, leaving her utterly and totally exhausted.

And lighter… SO much lighter.

After waking up alive once more, she hadn't allowed herself to examine or reflect on the life she left behind – concerning herself with the 'here and now' of going from place to place, getting lost in the people and the culture. Grateful, _sososososo_ grateful, that only the scars, nightmares and a few initial reactions to power tools were the only signs of trauma she suffered. Stephanie had been avoiding thinking of Tim, Batman, Birds of Prey, Cass, her father, her mother, her pregnancy and her past – didn't want to think about it because she knew she would have broken down and cried.

That would have helped, she was sure. Likely would have been enough, but not complete.

 _This felt better._

Stephanie did, however, wake up camped outside by a smoking, dead fire pit with her cheek pressed against a pebble and with Leslie prodding her shoulder, using the tip of a steel-toe boot, with a worried frown. Amahle, the old woman, was curled around her in a protective hold, flush against her back. Her long, gnarled-delicate fingers wrapped around Stephanie's wrists, legs tangled, face buried in the teen's neck and shared tears wetting both their cheeks. Stephanie's eyes had hurt like a bitch that day, lids swollen and the iris scratchy. Her side was sore from lying on the unforgiving ground, dirt submerged in her hair and the mother of all wedgies to greet her. No regrets, however.

And that was that – or all that jazz.

Leslie and Amahle were interesting. After the initial tension of meeting a stranger, Amahle seemed to, effortlessly, break down Leslie's own defenses. Stephanie wonders if Leslie finally cried too, if she let go of that cloud of angst she'd been subtly holding on too since leaving Gotham, and if Amahle helped her in the same way she helped Stephanie. There seemed to be an understanding that resonated between the two after Stephanie had been offered (read: ordered) to shower. A luxury Stephanie did not get to indulge in too often and after the night she had, she'd taken it.

Stephanie is not sure if that was the right or wrong choice, but she cannot say she regrets it. She does not know what happened, just that Leslie – while not hostile to Amahle, is far more at ease with the elder woman in a way Stephanie realized was different than her normal manner with the other volunteers.

She thinks it helps the doc a bit.

The elderly ladies were like two grandmothers that took it upon themselves to watch over her. Leslie was still teaching her the trade, testing her on organs, their purpose and what to do when any of them were damaged. She would quiz Stephanie on how one could hit said organs and what the outcome would be – mostly under the understanding that if one understood what caused the damage, one can effectively know how to fix it. Amahle talked, regaled Stephanie with tales, listened and began teaching Stephanie a different language, aside from the Bantu languages. The older woman, with eyes like the blonde, was teaching Stephanie Njerep, providing a hand-written journal full of symbols and strange patterns in a strange leather book and a spine of aged white. Amahle smiles mysteriously when Stephanie asks what it is made out of.

Stephanie never gets an answer.

The villagers seemed to treat Amahle with reverence, using a word Stephanie had never heard. When she asked the guides, whom she was learning a few Bantu languages from, they would laugh, "She is wise woman. Witch docto'. Supesstition of villaga's." Given the strange book Stephanie was shown, she thinks the image has merit, but she doesn't quite know if she believes in magic. Either way, it is kind of funny to witness when burly men seem to scramble and act like kids before the hunched woman.

During the day, Amahle would disappear, leaving Stephanie to work with Leslie in their tents and tending to the medical needs of the people. When she didn't have her days with Leslie, she was learning the languages, tracking with the hunters, learning how to prep food with little besides a knife and fire. Some of the guards, going off from teaching her how to use a gun, were teaching her basic survival tips while spewing their own tales of hot, harsh and cold, miserable conditions. It was only at night she would see Amahle, ready to lead Steph to some secluded place, sitting beneath the stars with the sounds of animals a mere whispering ambiance in the background.

Stephanie would call it meditation, but it felt so much different. It was not like the sitting and looking inward that Batman had been starting to teach her, what Black Canary and Huntress had mentioned in passing when they began to mentor her. Stephanie never felt as if she was looking inward, but outward, listening to Amahle tell tales of women suppressed, rising and challenging the heavens for their place on Earth. She spun epics of boys who fall, full of youth and ideas, and get back up, evolving to be men – warriors. Some of the tales were sad, some happy and some with an ambiguous end that one could take either way. She never held back either - sex, drugs, violence, science and magic in their separate stages or interwoven. Stephanie would not have changed it for the world.

When they would move to the next village, Amahle came with, "Yoa' joa'ney is only beginning, pwetty. I still ave much to teagh you." Stephanie and Leslie found no reason to argue. While in America any volunteers had to fill out paperwork by the dozens, stragglers of other villages were not an uncommon practice. The missionary folk who traversed with them were welcoming as well. There seemed to be an overly easy acceptance for the old woman to migrate with the party to whatever destination lie ahead.

Perhaps that was just how Amahle was.

Nomadic life with Amahle wasn't much different than when she had stayed with them before. During the day she would still disappear and reappear at night, usually after the work of camp was completed and the rest of those they migrated with were surrounding fires or slumbering. It was on their third night of travel, after two weeks of knowing the old woman that Stephanie finally asked her, "Where do you go during the day?" She had been curious before, of course, had wanted to demand the first night. She had held back though, feeling vulnerable, too childish to push.

Nothing good ever came from her asking questions and pushing… But then, her easily accepting whatever answers were given to her had never panned out that well for her either.

Leslie was an early to bed kind of girl, worn out from the many hours on the road and likely asleep, snoring away beneath a mosquito net, in her cot in their designated tent. So, usually, the night was just Stephanie and Amahle's time together.

The old woman cooed, wrapping her long, thin arm around the blonde, healing teen, but kept her eyes on the torrent of the nearby babbling brook. A far-off look always in those milky hues, "Do not feel shame, pwetty. Ask, question - neva' feel as if you a' less fo' seeking twuth and onesty." By this time, Stephanie did not wonder on how Amahle knew of Stephanie's fears, airing out whatever reservations the teen had come to expect. She was always glad of it. Stephanie felt a bone deep easing, because she had always been shamed for asking questions, seeking out answers and yet Amahle emboldened her nature instead. It wasn't childish, Amahle had taught her, the need to seek answers lie in all humans and creatures. Shame was not in being so, but in those who would hinder them instead. Years of being punished for a curious nature were hard to undo, but Amahle seemed the patient sort.

Stephanie laid her head on a shoulder in answer, her blonde hair flowing loosely down her back and nowhere near as defying as Amahle's own crown.

"I explo' galaxies and st'ies. I unt fo' paths lost in chaos and o'da', dozting away destinies not yet weckoned. I ponda' on past and taste the futa'. Stephanie Bwown, I look fo' you in it." Milky eyes, much like her own but with a slightly darker tinge in the middle, turned to regard her own and Stephanie did not look away. Nor did she point out that the answer seemed farfetched, but accepted it because Amahle's answer was utterly her.

She nearly felt as enchanted with the presence of the woman as she had the first night they met, after Amahle was seamlessly able to tear down and break her way into deeply hidden reservations that Stephanie had not allowed herself to look closely at. The words they shared were hushed, barely heard over the bubbling of the rivulet that streamed over rocks beneath the surface. The sky was dark with stars alight, unable to be blocked out with very little clouds in the sky and the presence of man-created light.

When Stephanie was a little girl, after moving to the suburbs, she watched the lights of Gotham, how the rising buildings gave off their own glow for miles in a radiant display – beautiful. When she turned her gaze away from the city she could see stars, out of the light of urbanization and blinking then, but she hadn't felt they were nearly as pretty. However, under the African sky with stars littered across the navy-blue night, splatters of glinting white speckles, she felt that she hadn't given the stars enough credit as a child.

Logically, Stephanie knew, she should ask about the future Amahle was speaking of, but she felt no compulsion to do so. Instead, she pointed up at the stars.

"Will you teach me to read them?" She was rewarded with the tingly laughter, an affectionate squeeze when Amahle went into a tale of the stars, tracing her fingers over constellations Stephanie had never bothered with before, had only begun learning when the guards began teaching her about survival – to navigate one's way with the position of the twinkling astrological signs above.

Several nights would pass this way, adding a bit onto her other lessons and skills she was acquiring – knowledge she hadn't fully believed she sought until she was in the thick of it.

* * *

When they stopped at the next village, reaching rocky desert land with scorching days and canyons surrounding them – water was scarcer here than ever. Stephanie nearly feared at how easy it was becoming for her to wear the same clothes on days on end without a lot of showering in between.

Yet, she found she wouldn't trade her experiences even if she was offered.

The day seemed like any other, Stephanie was easing the fears of a child in regards to shots, already grasping three of the Bantu languages with almost fluent ease, when there was a change in the pattern they had set for themselves. While inside a tent, helping Leslie, the sounds of gunfire rang out, the roaring engine of cars, the laughter, dark and entirely too pleased with the terror they inspired. Stephanie felt sick to her stomach, but a roar of righteousness called from deep within her chest. With a single look, she parted from Leslie, heading out the back of the tent and up one of the trucks.

Eyes were peeled for anyone to come up behind her, but the main party seemed to be centered in the camp and the village. Three jeeps and what looked to be six men in total, guns were being fired and the guards of their group were trying to not hit any villagers, but the raiders certainly didn't seem to care. Using villagers as shields, they picked off guards and civilians alike – they called out demands, but in a language Stephanie doesn't understand, can't comprehend at this time. She knows, KNOWS, she can't do anything to endanger the life of the people held hostage, the civilians or those of her camp. She has no tools, like a batarang, to throw and disarm them. She has no buildings to rise high into and come down on the men in a fit of surprise. They are too far from her and the area is too open. She fears a stray bullet, fears that she has no means in which to truly stop these guys – and taking them on in a straight up fight will only get her killed.

She can stop a speeding bullet, yeah, but it is one of those onetime-use-only kind of things. She definitely couldn't do that twice unless someone wants to pick up her body and give it another go. She did not put out any more for a warranty to cover multiple uses. Gotta read that fine print.

' _Think Stephanie, think!'_

There were moments where she recalls asking herself what Robin, Cass or Batman would do, but as she let her eyes stray about she caught sight of a sniper rifle, the body of one of the guards beside it with blood drenching the dirt beneath from the bullet hole in his head. Due to the way the dirt discolored, it was likely the bullet had gone clean through. Jumping down, she barely felt the jolt that rocked through her feet, up her legs and back – ignored some residual twinges of pain. Tucking into a roll, she swiped the weapon up and twirled in an about face, facing the back of one of the large semi-trucks they carried supplies in.

Her climb up the ladder was quick, precise. Much like a shotgun, she presses the butt of the gun into the curve of her shoulder, the rest of her hands positioning similar to her hold on the weapon, but had to adjust her grip because of the difference of length and positioning. Stephanie focused on her breathing, taking three deep breaths – working herself on learning where a money shot would come, staring with a blur through the scope. She wasn't used to seeing through a scope, aligning down her sight, she struggled to keep both eyes open and not close one eye – just like her instructors had taught her. She pressed her finger with some tension on the trigger, but did not tighten further, swallowing down the hurt to make it quick. When handling a gun, even breaths and the desire to follow through were two key pieces of advice. Focusing on the crosshair, Stephanie learned to navigate the range of the scope. She set herself to gaging if the enemy had spotted her, lifting her head and trying to match what she was seeing with what she could see through the magnified lens. The midday sun beat down, the heat of the metal truck beneath her, hot and blistering against the exposed flesh of stomach and legs. She was glad that the placement of the sun wouldn't quite deter where her shots would fly – though she didn't know if her lessons with the shotgun or pistols quite applied to here. There was considerable distance between Stephanie and the group, but her being elevated likely could have given her away.

The enemy hadn't noticed her.

Now, in broken English, they were asking for the witch and she was insanely indebted to whatever fluke of fate this was that Amahle did not stay with them during the day. Though, she had no evidence to think they meant her "witch", she did not wish to chance it either.

Breathing again, she gave herself a three second pause, looking through her sights, and set a slow, steady squeeze to the rear when the shot broke. Her aim had been the captor's shoulder, his arm around a young girl who was frightened and crying for her mother. She ended up hitting quite close to where she had been aiming, just above the girl's head. There was a slight kick, nothing to hinder her shot, lighter than the kick of a shotgun. Her target had dropped the girl and was down, clutching at where he had been hit. Stephanie didn't bother looking to see if he stayed down, using the crosshairs and earlier gathering of placement, she set her sights on the next guy. Her aim rang true; getting a particular point in the neck she knew wouldn't kill the man – but take him out in the case his buddy wasn't. Blood splayed and now a few of the guys were shooting wildly, she recognized it as a tactic to scare her out of revealing her position. Fear and caution, some great motivators under certain situations.

Another shot lined up, she could feel sweat lining along the valley of her breast, down the dip of her back and along her thighs. Her fingers felt dry and ready, though. She got the next one in the chest, the fourth in his kneecap and the other in his gun arm, for him she added a shot to his other hand. Gritting her teeth, she was counting her god damn lucky stars that the men seemed more preoccupied in trying to spot a shooter other than taking pot shots at the hostages or anyone else.

One man was left standing, the barrel of his gun against the temple of a little boy, gripping at his arm, with wide, tormented eyes. _I'm going to die_ , The boy's eyes said, shoulders slumped in defeat of a fate he never chose. Looking slight through the lens of the scope.

' _Not if I can help it'_ , her heart thudded. She lined up the shot, breathed and squeezed. And that was the moment something went wrong. Somewhere, she could not determine, something reflected the light of the sun, hitting her own lens to reflect back.

She flinched. And that made all the difference.

She had aimed for a point on his chest - the man fell back and the gun fell from his hand... A little boy's eyes went wide with hope to live another day, grateful to be saved from death at a man who used terror on himself and his home.

The group was just a small band, coming from a tribe of witch-hunters, the authorities had laughed. Stephanie didn't quite get the joke. The group was not the first time they had dealt with something like this, but it was the worse and hit too close, plus they were witch-hunters and not a band of raiders. Law enforcement was called in, most of the government officials from a closer town; most villages like the ones their volunteer group visited didn't have much of an officer of the law. So they had to wait, staring at the dead bodies for nearly an hour before anyone came.

All but one were wounded, the final man had taken the bullet to the head. The one who had made demands for the witch to come forth. The final one Stephanie had shot… and killed.

Her heart squeezes painfully and she wonders if she didn't just imagine that reflecting light that caused her to flinch. The thought _terrifies_ her.

When Stephanie had once imagined killing her father, just ridding the world of him – she had believed there would be some sort of cosmic balance. Naïve enough to think that if she just rid herself of him, ended his life, then maybe mom would stop guzzling pills, maybe her own depression would dissipate and that his shadow wouldn't have to darken either of their lives again. Batman had stopped her, convinced her that killing her father wouldn't do any of that, but ruin her life.

She had believed him.

He was right. This wasn't even her father, but a stranger that had to go and prove him correct, she believes in the aftermath as she stares at the gruesome bullet hole she had implanted there.

After killing that man, despite knowing she saved a boy's life and without the intention to do so, she was inconsolable that night. After the wounded were tended too, after the dead were cleared and to be buried or burned – the gratitude came. Stephanie knew it would happen, but she hadn't sought it and it certainly didn't feel like she deserved any thanks. Every guard congratulated her, the local law enforcement commended her on a job well done and others of the group seem to regard her as a hero. The villagers even, Steph swallowed and it wouldn't go down, were in a celebratory mood. Yet, she could only see the gaping wound in his head, feel the burning presence of the gun in her hand – she didn't blame the gun, she had activated the trigger. She felt vile and slimy.

Batman's words echoed in her head, repeated like a digital recording she couldn't find the pause button too. " _Killing him will ruin your life."_ She felt ruined now… and the guy wasn't even her dad!

Leslie had held her briefly, just after Stephanie had climbed down off the truck, legs wobbly and with a heavy, sinking feeling in her chest. The panic of the villagers, the dying and wounded not allowing them enough time to work on just how damaging a first kill can do to a psyche – or to allow two people like them, when they mostly only had each other now, to wallow in comfort. The older woman could only contend with sitting Stephanie down before going to tend to the wounded, reminding others to sternly help with the aftermath. Stephanie didn't remain idle; she threw herself in doing the same.

She **had** to do something.

There was something cathartic in cleaning up bullet wounds, picking out the small bits of metal and setting about mending flesh. She found silence when she calmed a screaming, inconsolable child, cleaning a wound and situating salves to fight infection. She did not have her thoughts to dwell on, already having been plagued by many things before, when she threw herself in 'doctoring' those harmed.

Once that was done, all she had was her thoughts.

When Amahle came that night, she curled on the ground with Stephanie and rocked their bodies together, much like how Leslie had held her after everything had gone down. This time for longer… and Leslie joined them, both women cushioning her between their bodies like silent guardians burrowing their young in their warmth, sheltering a fragile girl – a child – from the gravity of life and death. Stephanie wasn't a child, not anymore – hadn't been for a long time. She did not need their sheltering, them to guard her, her mind insisted and raged.

Her heart, her soul and her inner child screamed otherwise.

Eventually, but not tonight, she would make peace with herself – learn that her intent was not the same as purposefully seeking to kill the man. That the fine line was a definite, slippery slope that she did not have to submerge herself in with black guilt and fear, always the fear, of being less than.

Tonight was not that night. Her lessons were not over, only time and experience will heal these wounds, this perception of self-reflection. For now, she can just mourn a life.

Amahle sings to her and Leslie caresses her back in comfort before slipping away later that night. Amahle has taken her far away from the camp and the village…in tandem, both women have agreed that Stephanie will be away from the camp that night.

It is the night that Batman comes and confronts Leslie on her part in Stephanie's 'death', his discovery on the care she did not provide. Her willfully letting Stephanie die to teach him a lesson, to be a warning to other children.

Neither Batman nor Stephanie quite understood how close they came to seeing each other that night. None are any wiser on their parts to play, or the truth of Leslie's guilt. The chill of the night comforts no one.

It is a night of many, many regrets and sorrow.

* * *

A calendar suggests it is half-way through a year, a month after she had killed a man. The guilt is just a pinch, a lesson and reminder. Her hands, when she looks at them, are no longer shadowed in blood, but calloused and strong. She does not flinch when picking up a gun, but works on her focus. She learns, on top of how to hit a person to incapacitate, how to shoot a man without killing them.

Never again, she vows, not if she can help it.

She goes between her lessons, Amahle, Leslie, learns new faces and begins learning French – new guide guy. The blonde teen keeps herself busy, but always reflects and rethinks some choices by the end of the night. Stephanie cannot always chase her thoughts away and comes to the conclusion she does not want too, not anymore.

She recalls why she became Spoiler, to 'spoil' her father's plans, to teach him a lesson. She remembers why she stayed on as Spoiler; she was not a vigilante out of vengeance or a true need to see justice done – not at first. She thinks it had something to do with a boy, of feeling free when she jumps from roof to roof of… being something other than the criminal and druggie's daughter. She remembers chatting with the prostitutes, beating up unfair Johns, to helping little kids from preying adults – of the easy acceptance from the people on the streets even when Batman or Robin don't like her doing what she does. She was – is – a people person, able to relate to the people who struggle in their everyday life, of fearing the Batman and his Robin. She remembers thinking that Batman and Robin don't understand the people of Gotham, that though they protect the citizens, they just weren't one of them.

The Spoiler was – and the people could see that.

She did not start off being the Spoiler to be a hero; she did not stay to be one either. She stayed for the people and herself. She was one of the people, could see that she could make a difference even if Batman and his brood didn't think she could.

 _Yet, how she desperately wanted them to accept her._

She reflects that at one time, long before, she was easily able to separate Stephanie Brown from the Spoiler. The moment that Stephanie Brown became the Spoiler, entwined and no longer separate entities was before her fancy trysts with Robin… It was the moment she let her dad go to jail instead of killing him.

Now, now she sees that Spoiler was only a piece of her – just like Robin would always be a piece of Tim. Not a whole piece, but a stepping stone of a journey – adolescence and growth on the way to being something more.

She deduces the same about being Robin. Her stint was brief and she'll never regret saving Batman's life, the lessons he had managed to teach her; her intent to prove herself to him, Robin, Oracle and the Birds of Prey. She regrets though, her rashness and how she went about things. It feels like lifetimes ago.

Damn, she suddenly feels old. Soooooooo getting drunk at the next bonfire and flirting with the guy who is teaching her French. A girl needs her distractions, y'know.

She misses Tim, he is her first love and though her heart aches for him, there is a dullness there of fond remembrance. Things just aren't the same, even now. She is not the same girl and when she recalls his face before her untimely 'end', she feels bittersweet as if there was a goodbye there she hadn't dwelled upon. She doesn't know when it happened.

She doesn't feel regret there either… Okay, maybe a smidgen, but only in how she never got to give him a proper goodbye. Oh, and him thinking she is dead. A flash of that 'smidgen' of regret lashes through her and she amends her thought process to know that he likely would not take her death well. No matter their fight… they were friends first.

Amahle comes for her, pulling her into a dance that only the old woman hears; when Stephanie closes her eyes, she can hear it too.

She forgets to dwell on such things further.

* * *

Weeks later, they have crossed the border of Kenya – uneventful in comparison to some extremes. Nearly a month and a half after they leave Kenya (Stephanie will never forget the open miles of running with some of the fastest men she's ever known. Pfft, forget the Flash – No, seriously, don't tell him that!) into Ethiopia. Somalia curves and traces along the borders of both Kenya and Ethiopia, but due to civil unrest and rocky, violent politics it is deemed unsafe to travel there, like a few other countries they have skipped over for many similar reasons. For now, Ethiopia is the destination estimated to be safer for all involved, men, women, children, white, black and whatever your religion. Still, no matter where one went there were always dangers, just best to calculate the odds of survival beforehand.

Ethiopia is a country located in what is called the 'Horn of Africa'. Sharing it's northern and northeast borders with Eritrea, with Djibouti and Somalia to the east, Sudan and South Sudan to the west; to the south is Kenya. The country is a landlocked, boasting of a hundred million inhabitants and earning the title as the second-most populous nation on the African continent. Ecologically diverse, with desert lands along the eastern border to the tropical forests that run along the south, running into Afromontane regions – a discontinuous area, separated from each other by lower-lying areas- in the northern and southwestern parts. Two noteworthy aspects that would limit their range within the country and would provide other options of travel are the vast, highland mountains, which cover most of the country's mass, and the Lake Tana of the north, the source of the Blue Nile. With the differences of ecosystem in just this part of the world - compared to much of the wastes, deserts and Savannah areas the group has traversed, there will be a wider variety of climates they may run into.

The missionary folk have tapered off, making the group they travel with smaller to that of just the volunteers who are here for relief work in providing services and supplies to smaller, outlying villages with very little to none of the essentials to live. It is, because of the climates of tropical-monsoon variation, necessary. Most of the major cities of Ethiopia are a couple thousand feet above sea level due to how the country only ever has an average of seven hours of sunshine in a day – even in the dry season. Sadly, due to some time constraints they had arrived at the tail end of the lighter rain season of May, after that it would be the heavy rain season. Lower elevations could be quite dangerous with flooding and mudslides, which is why most major cities got to sit at the tippy-top, hoighty-toighty.

However, Stephanie figured, she could forgive that a bit because Ethiopia had been one of the coolest places they had visited so far. Despite being close to the equator, like many of their neighboring countries, Ethiopia's temperatures never got above eighty degrees and thus lacked some of the serious heat she has known as part of her travels through Africa. There were other places, such along the south, which did get chilly during the night, going to near freezing in some cases. Ethiopia's nights barely went below thirty-five Fahrenheit.

 _Thank you, sweet-baby Jesus!_

Karo is a southern village that reminds her of more photographers and documentaries, flashy inspirational posters that line classrooms. The village is in the most tropical part of Ethiopia, laid out on a wide plain with tall grass surrounding the low huts made of the similar grass of wheat-color. They stood no taller than Stephanie's shoulder if not a little under five feet high. The plains fade away into a dense forest that is only cut by a long, brown, winding river. The tribe, like others are dressed and coated in that of their customs; their dark skin is masked in a white paste – some dotted or traced into patterns along arms, chests, legs or bellies. There were other colors, yellows, reds and oranges, but they seemed very few and only for certain people, like elders and hunters. Most of the villagers have shortly cropped hair; some dyed a vibrant burgundy, some in small braided-twists. Women and men wore adornment of flowers, beaded shawls, bands and feathers –though they wore the feathers only on special occasions or for visitors - that cover their head and over their shoulders. Almost everyone wore a necklace, like the headbands or shawls, made red, black and yellow patterned designs. Many of the men don't wear shirts, preferring that of the white paste, or one of the other random colors of paste – though Stephanie only saw the white and orange.

The children are naked but layered in the same crème substance that paints over their nakedness as a substitute for clothes usually, but would wear skirted clothe around their waist, brightly colored reds and yellows, for marked events. The women, or those who begin to bear marks of womanhood ("Boobs, Leslie, you can say they have tits.") are mostly clothed with colorful, light clothes that wrap around their forms. Older women, young adults, matrons or grandmothers, are topless with elaborate necklaces that hide their mature bosom. ("I don't understand why you can't just say boobs. Why you sugar coating this?")

Due to the density of the forest and part of why the volunteer group diverted from the missionaries, was so a ferry could take a selected few down the river, an easy form of travel and one of the only ways to get to certain settlements on their journey. Many of the bigger trucks would be driven around to a point where they could meet up again, leaving only a few smaller trucks and essentials packed with a handful of volunteers; a majority of the medical staff, to visit. Stephanie was one of the few.

The official language of Ethiopia is Amharic, with English, Arabic and Somali as the acceptable languages spoken. Somali was a Bantu language that Stephanie had a decent grasp of and would be able to use it while traversing within the country. She hopes, at some point, to add Arabic to the repertoire the closer north they get. None of the guides journeying with them spoke it, however. One did speak the Amharic, though – so she'd be working on that.

A girl has to have hobbies when she has no phone, no laptop and there is no Gameboy in sight. Oh mi god, she's still a teenager for crying out loud.

" _Don't give me those eyes, Leslie!"_

* * *

Music and dancing, the people of Karo might lack electricity, modern medicine and a clean water supply, but they don't lack spirit. Three men are beating on drums, single pieces that vary in height, in a rhythm that causes Stephanie to swing her hips, the beaded shakers add along to get her head thrown around and three others are playing some sort of pipes. Others are clapping, singing a melody in a language Stephanie does not understand and that is alright with her. There is celebration in the air, smiles on faces and Amahle is on her right with Leslie on her left, hands held and spinning around a large fire with fifteen other people. There are drinks and the sizzling smell of a cooked red-footed gazelle.

The combination of food – _devoured_ – and the homebrew of alcohol creates a happy, contented Stephanie Brown. The same could be said for the blissful look on the Doc's face – _has been depressed, frowning for too long_ – and Amahle's high-tingling laughter rings joyously. Stephanie moves with others, slipping from between the two women, who turn and grip their hands together, like several other matrons, rising their hands high and turning clock-wise in three rotations and then counter-clockwise to come apart and open their arms to embrace a returning Stephanie whom had run and jumped in synch to the people and the beat.

Arms wide and welcoming and she feels safe, cocooned.

The night is cool, refreshing on flesh that has grown dark with a tan, hair lighter with exposure to the sun and her nerves thrumming wildly in her veins. She has had moments of fun, had laughed and danced in the other villages. She has imbibed in drinks, flirted with pretty boys and girls. She had moments of stupidity, of lying to Leslie and sneaking off to skinny dip, tried to ride a wild horse and ate a cooked scorpion on a dare. She visits cities in every country, goes dancing in clubs and has drunken make-out sessions. Sometimes she wraps a shawl around her face and stops a mugging, kicks a guy's ass for harassing a girl – crime did not stop in Gotham. She finds the trouble, uses what she has learned and fills exhilaration in knowing she has improved, but can still improve.

 _It is in her blood now and she doesn't want it out._

Leslie would not be pleased, _isn't_ pleased. When they ran from Gotham, she had promised Stephanie she would take her from that life. Promised that she didn't have to be part of it anymore. She could live a normal life.

 _But I didn't ask you for that, Leslie._

Between everything from being a nurse, her lessons, her thoughts on things of the past and a future she hasn't yet determined – these moments get her. She does not forget her troubles entirely, but she breathes in the moments like this and remembers she is still a teen. She is alive, _not dead_ , and loves people, loves enjoying the moments.

So she trills, dances and sings, though she likely butchers the words.

 _She kept saying a whore was riding a chicken, thanks for telling me that Amahle._

She learns a lesson, not an obvious one, but a piece of her own puzzle. She learns to just be, to be young, to make mistakes and learn from them. She learns she has come a long way from the girl who started the War Games.

She still has a long way to go, but this night, with Leslie and Amahle on either side of her, it is enough. For now.

* * *

Like many smaller villages, especially tribes like those of the Karo, Stephanie has learned that each group has particular customs not usually open to outsiders. When they are one should always be respectful, as bizarre as they seem they are a tradition, rites of passage and part of the particular charm that is as part of the people as one's soul is as much a part of them.

And if you're going to be an ass and say you have no soul, fine. Your spleen, your brain or your heart – it's vital to your existence.

Amahle comes to her one night, waking Stephanie up out of a dead sleep. The ex(?)-vigilante had felt lethargic all day, worried she was getting sick despite having all her shots before coming over. Leslie was passed out in her own cot, her specs still on her face and the light of her lamp still glowing. Stephanie throws on a plain, blue t-shirt and her boots. She usually wears shorts to bed, jeans or kaki, only owning the two. Tonight she has on the jeans and one of the three shirts she wears on cooler nights like this.

She follows Amahle as she leads her to the outcrop of the village, with the flickering flame of torchlight guiding the way. The grassy plain stands tall, nearly dwarfing Stephanie by several inches, and Amahle enters with Stephanie on her heels. Snakes can hide within, lying in wait – some harmless and some not so, but the blonde teenager does not recoil as she trusts Amahle. Something whispers _kindred_ like a steady promise in her conscious to reassure her either way. The forest is dark, almost black away from the light of torches and very little moonlight shining down from a cloudy night. Rain pitter patters in a steady beat – and Stephanie realizes she barely paid attention to the rain when they danced, when they healed or when it nearly drowns her books. It is a constant of her days in Ethiopia just as Amahle and Leslie have become her constants in everyday life.

The forest with its nut-brown bark is not entirely unfamiliar as she has hunted a few times with the tribe since coming here – learning how they track and kill their prey. The leaves overhead shield them from the rain, though there are cold trickles from those that drop off the edge of a leaf and make their way down her nose or the back of her shirt. There is nary a crunch beneath their trekking feet as the ground is damp from the all-day rain, compiled to make the ground soft with the heavy scent of mulched dirt and spate in the air. There are sounds of animals, such as the slithering of a snake in the branches above or the howl of an Ethiopian wolf in the distance that further hides their journey deeper and deeper, going further into the darkness. The obscurity is thick, nearly a cloak around her skin and she would fear getting lost if the crimson of Amahle's dress did not stand out starkly.

Stephanie loses track of how long they've been walking, feels oddly displaced and hypnotized by red, but believes it was not long. Only when they breach out from between low-hanging branches, back into the drizzle does torchlight penetrate the shade of night, does Stephanie get the sense that it could not have been long. Three torches stand in a triangle formation before a grassy building – odd and yet, significant though Steph cannot pinpoint why she knows, or feels, that it is so. Most of the buildings of the village are shorter than Steph's five foot, five inches, but this building is nearly twice her size with a hole in the pointed top and smoke drifts lazily from.

Dug into the ground, stairs have been created by hard dirt and wood, leaving muddied stone walls to circle in a large room with rugs and leather, feather-stuffed pillows lying about the fifteen foot radius that houses a giant fire that crackles softly. Twelve men and women, all older, sit around the fire while others – looks like the rest of the village – line along the walls. Stephanie feels all eyes on her and she feels a sudden pressure in the middle of her chest. It is not a bad feeling, just one that is profound and she doesn't know what to do with it.

She does not reach up to grab at the spot, opting to do nothing when Amahle turns to her, the fire at her back and features obscured, but for the glow of her milky eyes that beam back at Steph. There is a bowl in her hands, carved out of wood with a thick, brown liquid that nearly reminds her of syrup with the compactness of the fluid, but is not as sweet looking.

Her shirt is damp, clings to her suddenly heaving chest as she raises her hands to accept the offering – feels a compulsion that is beyond her yet feels deeply right. She keeps her eyes on Amahle, searching until the bowl veils her face and she is drinking. The taste is bitter, heavy on her tongue, but she swallows as if she is so, so thirsty.

Stephanie will later reflect on how Amahle's involvement on her life seems to now include blackouts. _"Seriously?! You should come with a warning on your label. Cool old lady, side effects may include: Blackouts, strange late night experiences and overall confusion on what you're doing with your free time.'"_

She remembers and does not know if it was a dream or if she was high off of whatever was in that bowl.

She is surrounded by the night, unhindered by constraints she has set for herself as she feels the bark under her hands and feet. Feels the texture of wood beneath her palms, the tickle of leaves against her bare sides. Twigs are infused in her hair, the ends tangled and wet against her back. The night air caresses her scars as droplets kiss the grooves of muscles, sneakily ghosting over her breasts and between her legs.

Her blood is on fire in her veins, her body pulses with the running hooves of the gazelles, to the growl of a panther and the cry of a bat. She feels connected and shattered all at once, standing in one place and yet as if she is everywhere at once. Her veins feel like vines, creeping outwards to touch every heartbeat of the forest, seeping into the river to play with the fish and the otters. Her fingertips are sensitive, feeling the velvet brush of fur, scales and flesh. She feels the heels of her feet throb with the beat of a thrill, the memory of the celebratory dance palpitating in her center.

Suddenly, she is atop a tree, staring into an empty blackness, but then Spoiler and Robin are before her. Both versions of herself she has always been and they are fighting, fierce and flirty. Another figure appears, older, shadowed and just as fierce, but seductive and focused – still playful. Unlike the eggplant of her Spoiler outfit or the bright green, yellow and red of the robin, the third figure is dark, almost black – Steph almost swears it is a shadow, her imagination. There is a splash of light and Stephanie can see that the figure is a dark, darker purple to nearly be black. Only the boots, fingers and mask of the shrouded cowl is black with the hood blending into the rest of the dark, plum of a fitted outfit. She can't see beyond the shadow of the hood, does not know if there is a full mask like the one she had when she was Spoiler. But gets the distinct sense that no one could see under that hood unless the person wanted them too. It sends shivers down her spine that are not born of fear… but border between awareness and excitement.

There is a mark, something she cannot identify, on the protected chest. Her toes curl and warmth settles in her belly and she does not know why.

Irritation springs up her throat, nearly choking, but phantom fingers sooth the area; her mind and heart whisper, " _Not yet_." And she settles, leaning into the ghost of fingers that deign to comfort her.

There is no cape, no fluttery clip of fabric that is caught with a breeze. The outfit fits whoever wears it like a glove, deceptive of the armor it is and seems to be one piece. She breathes in, smells the familiar scent of Kevlar, leather and sweat. She knows, somehow, that there are pockets, insulation and wires within the fabric and where they would be tickles like little shocks on her skin.

The hooded figure turns to her, sees her, crouched low, but coiled and ready to pounce. Like a hunter, like a predator - it teases her heartstrings as she breathes in wanting. _Needing_. She can only see a light glinting from beneath the cowl, eyes that are not easy to identify or read, but she feels like laughter is touching her, warm and comforting.

She sees her future.

The figure jumps and slams into her, sinking beneath her skin, crawling over her form and groping along her joints. She looks down at her hands and sees the black fingers, clenching her fists and hears the leather creak at the action. Her gaze continues up an arm and down her chest, but she still can't see the strange pattern on the chest, but dismisses it.

Another puzzle piece clicks into place, snapping in with a near finality – though the picture is far from complete.

The air is knocked out of her lungs and she spirals, down, down, down.

Her back hits with a thud as she stares up into her once blue, blue eyes and a smile that is full of the innocence she lost at too young of an age. The blonde of her hair, shorter and curlier, is tangled with bursting prickly looking, yellow flowers in a mimic of a star, green, needle-like bristles that reminds her of pine trees, but she somehow knows that is not correct. There are bright pink and yellow poofs of flowers, scattered with long petals that are thinner than her finger in length and width, thick and bright; outweighing the rest with bright green leafy ends, long stems creeping along the strands of hair and giving off a heady scent – she recognizes it is an herb, but as soon as she tries to name that single plant it escapes her.

She does not recognize the rest of the flowers, almost marveling that if her skin was a little greener she might have passed off as Poison Ivy's child in another life. However, though she is not florist and has never held that particular field of interest, she feels as touched and humbled by the sight of them. Something deep within her feels an importance in their colors, in their appearance as she wraps her arms around the younger, unclothed version of herself and when she threads her gloved fingers through the strands, only a few petals fall around her; coating her in their aroma.

She feels the pressure of chapped, gentle lips that tease with seeking sweeps and returns it in kind.

Stephanie tastes renewal.

* * *

When Stephanie comes awake, she is reminded of when she woke up _**living**_ once again. Gasping for breath, shooting up into a sitting position and feeling disoriented as ever. However, she is still trying to gulp air – isn't able to get enough. Sweat covers her brow, her thighs are soaked and everything feels tender. The scent of flowers still teases her in her waking hours, faint like a memory.

With a strangled groan, she flops backwards and ignores the squelching sound of her back sinking into the mud, focusing on how that sensation feels instead.

She is naked and covered in dirt, leaves and twigs in her hair and the sun is not even up yet. She is in the forest still, curled into the mud with droplets coating her in a fine, cooling sheen that has her groaning disgracefully, and yet pleased as it contrasts to her heated flesh.

Her head pounds with a hangover and her stomach churns painfully, but she does not move any further and closes her eyes. Only when something snuffs and blows the hair at the side of her head, does her eyes snap open, widening as she becomes unnaturally still. She waits, holding her breath as her gaze shifts upwards, gaining nothing but a strain in her eyes and the hindrance of her hair. When she couldn't take it anymore, she just turns her head and ignored the rain splattering her face.

No sound or strike greeted her movement other than the throb of pain in her temple. She lets her gaze roam. What little light there was had her squinting.

Nothing was there.

Huffing out a breath, she decides to sit up – feeling regret on following through with that idea as her stomach feels like protesting. She pauses, hearing the sounds of something moving through the mud, drawing her attention. The blonde teen balks.

"Oracle?" She questions, voice strained and feels as if she is shaking – she is. She just stares as the paraplegic woman seems to roll through mud, twigs and fallen leaves with very little issue. Stephanie wants to know – _Fucking drugged, but I need to know_ – just what kind of upper body routine she has.

' _This gang's getting a little tired of funerals. And that's what you'll be, Steph. Just a bunch of dead flowers and a costume in a display case.'_

And Stephanie won't lie, it hurts. It hurt then, because Barbra was tolerant of her and that just seemed to be that.

Something slithers against her back, she peers over her shoulder. Alfred is standing over her, looking as menacing that one night she met him for the first time – he broke a pencil after she made a remark. (Okay, it was a shitty of her to just be dismissive of him and calling him the Butler, she knows – but she was so tired of people fucking disapproving of her.) He had that broken pencil in hand and in that same, clipped British voice, _'I don't approve of recent choices made. I will_ _ **withhold judgement**_ _on your skill… I am loyal to Tim. He is hurt, if you care Miss Brown.'_

She wants to yell that she does care. She always did. Probably one of the biggest reasons she always got into those situations.

Something flaps and she flinches, recognizing the sound of it as she turns to see Batman looming over her. Alfred is forgotten at her side, _'You don't have what it takes to be a vigilante. Go home, Stephanie.'_

She bites her lip to fight the whimper, fists clenching mud as she stares up at him before lowering her head. Her chest is heaving, it hurts and she doesn't know if it is from hurt or anger, maybe both. She flinches as a hand touches her shoulder.

Tim, angry behind that domino mask, _'I can't trust you.'_ And she resists curling away from him, as if she was struck. Because isn't that part of the whole basis of their relationship? He was loyal to Batman, she got it – she put up with not knowing his real name because she convinced herself she wasn't good enough for him. When he found out, he was betrayed and she wanted to scream about how was it that bad when Batman was obviously saying she was good enough to know his name?

But she didn't. Because it seemed like nothing she did would fix it anyway.

She was hurt, confused – yes they did reconcile a bit, but things weren't the same. He always had issues trusting her, of trying to earn trust by trying to please him, Batman, Alfred, Oracle, the Birds of Prey and Batgirl.

She was getting so fucking sick of it.

She fell back onto her back, above her was herself, again. Not the girl with flowers in her hair, but the girl dressed as Spoiler, holes in the outfit and dressed in wounds that had her remembering her night with the Black Mask.

' _So obsessed with approval, with wanting to do what they want, what they say. You're easily manipulated to doing it all because you are so thirsty to be worth something in their eyes.'_ The sneer on her face reminds her so much of her father, her breath hitches in her throat. The other her is crouching low, feet on either side of her torso, _'When you gonna learn?'_

She bucks, turning in place to where her cheek meets the mud again.

There Dinah is, perfect blonde curls that defy rain and in her outfit as Black Canary. She remembers Dinah achingly so, one of the few that showed the least amount of reluctance to train her, to see her as something other than a deadweight kid, _'We're_ _ **not**_ _partners. I'm_ _ **not**_ _your mentor.'_ She tastes blood with how hard she is biting her lip.

But she doesn't turn from Dinah, feels an odd compulsion to not dismiss her.

' _You're very talented, Stephanie. And driven. And surprisingly, well-adjusted._ ' She remembers that too, her initial hurt at Dinah dismissing her and then Dinah's final words. Something is pressing on her shoulder and she lies back.

Her other self is there again, the one with the flowers. Her smile is there, bright and eager, but there is something in those milky eyes, no longer blue, a haunted look she sees whenever she looked in the mirror after the events with Black Mask.

' _You don't have to anymore.'_ And Steph doesn't quite know how to respond to that, _'You were always looking for a place to belong, to find approval, to please others when you, yourself always ended up hurting.'_ She gulps down whatever makes her throat hurt, _'Stephanie, you don't have to do it anymore.'_

Her hands are dirty from mud and covered in scratches, being held in the other Stephanie's hands, soft; clean, as she sits on her stomach, "I don't have to what?" She decides to ask despite her reluctance to ask, feels a strain in her throat and it stings. She tastes blood as she licks her lips.

' _You're worthy of yourself, of your destiny – whatever that may be. Love you, be you and never seek others for happiness… It is found only in you.'_ Tears burn at her eyes and that pain in her chest is spreading and easing. She is reminded of Amahle, of Leslie, of Cassandra and Dinah. She can see flashes of Alfred, Batman and Tim's faces as shadowy backgrounds. She thinks of her mother, her father and the baby she gave up..

She ruminates all those moments where she defied what others told her – believed she was above needing their approval and yet, yet, she had always sought it, hadn't she? She had wanted Batman to be a mentor, to see that she wasn't just Tim's girlfriend, the child of a criminal and able to walk her own path. Buuuuuuuut, she followed his instructions blindly, seeking to earn trust and something more with a man who – in the end – she didn't really know.

She wanted him to see the good in her…

Or did she really want someone to see it so she could believe it herself?

She had been wowed by Cass, learning from her and helping her read. They had fun playing rooftop tag and there was something there, an easy friendship born. Stephanie can remember how Cass seemed to be there when even Tim wasn't… to when she wouldn't answer Stephanie if she believed Batman was right that she didn't have what it took to live this life. She had sought validation.

Tim was the boy who persisted and she began crushing on. She was bold, pursuing him and never wasting a moment, not hesitating in displaying it. She had thought she was confident… And yet she never fought him on his secret identity, both out of fear and respect. Respect on the secret identity thing, hating how he used her name and knew all about her and fear of rocking the boat. She had convinced herself she was fine with it, convinced him of it too when he allowed himself to dwell on the unfairness of it. She remembers jealousy of seeing him with other girls, wondering if they knew his identity when she didn't. How he could never seem to trust her when all she wanted to do was get closer.

But she hadn't fully trusted him either, had she? She would see him with other girls and assumed the worst, the underlying fear that he realized he could do _better_ than her. So, she sought any means to be closer. Admittedly, maybe through Batman wasn't the best idea, but what else did a girl have? She had thought it was hitting two birds with one stone.

At least, she saw it like that.

She was constantly seeking something, the approval, validation, to want others to want her instead of just tolerating her. Dinah and Helena being some of the only few, along with Cass and Tim (but now she can see it was compromised by Tim's feelings for her and Cass desiring a friend) whom had actually appreciated her and saw her as more than just a replacement for Tim, as another dead-kid walking.

Even from them, she had wanted sanction to be a hero, a vigilante and someone worthy of being wanted.

… She _ **really**_ was fucking sick of it.

Other her is smiling now, the haunted look about gone.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't need to anymore. I just need to know me." It was weird saying something like that out loud; especially staring at another version of her, this time dressed in that outfit of the future her. But she found her vision getting blurry and was forgetting what it looked like. She tried to look down, but her eyes wouldn't stray away from other her's face.

' _Wakeup, Steph – wakeup.'_

* * *

This time, she really did wakeup.

She is informed she has a fever, lying in her cot with blankets thrown over her and gut rolling as she fights to keep whatever she ate last down.

Despite it all, she tells a disapproving Leslie that she feels bitch'in already. Smiles for added effect too.


	3. Meet 'n Greet

Stephanie does not talk about her vision or the dreams she had, nor does she ask Leslie or Amahle – for different reasons – on how she ended up back in bed. She has no disillusionment that the night happened, that it was not all just one big delusion from the moment Amahle woke her up out of bed to when her other self demanded she wake up. It was too real, the experience settling deep into her bones and washing over into her nerves with the burgeoning clarity that it happened. The experience is crucial to her and always there, just beneath the surface of memories and skin.

Her fever only lasted two days and is merely from one of the spirits not quite agreeing with her.

She had twigs in her hair and mud streaked along her limbs.

Leslie, likewise, does not ask how they got there. Amahle just smiles at her, mysterious and otherworldly.

That was nearly four weeks ago.

They are travelling north, meeting up with the larger trucks and making their way through mountain villages. They stop at a settlement not too far from one of the bigger cities where Stephanie finds a new kind of instructor.

Abiy Addi, cleverly "Big town" is located in north central Ethiopia, to the north of Addis Ababa, the capital city. Like all major cities it is nineteen hundred miles above sea level, sitting at one of the highest designations as the heavy rain season hits harshly, where mudslides and flooding are not as much of a danger here as it is for some of the lower-lying settlements the volunteer group are staying with. The town is divided by the Gerebshegalu River, with the lower half of the city considered the 'respectable' part and the upper half is where one can find the marketplace, the seedy bars and whatever anyone considers to not be 'respectable'.

The Simien Mountains stand to the west, beyond a deep valley, with the high rise of mountain peaks, square or spiky; seem to zig-zag along the sky. By Gotham's standards the Ethiopian city would be comparable to the slums, but with actual foundation, brick and wood, paved roads and the basic amenities and more taken care of – the city looked pretty upscale from where Stephanie was standing. The market district is comprised of connected buildings with large openings, shelves or blankets scattered with whatever goods the particular vendor is selling.

Today, Stephanie buys mitumba and giggles as she takes in the plain, blue, summer dress that will be just a tad short of reaching her knees. It costs her a decent chunk of the birr banknotes, but she considers it worth it since she has contended with the select mere two pairs of shorts, three t-shirts, three tank-tops and two changes of underwear since she embarked on this journey. Her only footwear she has is her boots, nearly calf-high, brown leather faded to a taupe color that would go nicely with the dress.

When Stephanie first entered the markets in Africa, she wasn't entirely sure (without sounding racist and ignorant as fuck) what she would find. She had expected cloth of course, but when she happened upon clothes that looked like they had gone through America's garbage on the shelf, she had nearly pinched herself as she went through items and found familiar brands. Some were in quite a state and some weren't so bad off.

Thankfully, when she asked about it to one of the guides, one of the young ones that were closer to her age, they hadn't seemed put off. But they were excited about mitumba and went into the finer details of the treasures it could lead too.

Mitumba has strange beginnings, clothing that soccer moms wake up on an early Saturday morning to throw away, or rather donate to the Salvation Army, Red Cross or other nonprofit organizations one can take their old, unwanted clothes too. Some aren't event that old. Rich Americans – or even middle class Americans – have become stellar in the art of throwing things away, so much so that even the nonprofit organizations have an overabundance of the cast-off clothing. While America's poor is too few to make any real supply-demand chain work, there are customers for the discarded clothing all over the world – and becomes a dynamic global industry.

Is it a villainous industry? Or a great one? From what Stephanie can see, it is an sector that gives business to the market stall owners here in East Africa, promoting competition, drive and innovation as one looks for the 'treasures' amongst what some in America, or other European countries, would snub their nose at. African customers don't like in-your-face logos ("Come at me bro!") or anything with a suggestive message ("Hot Mama" as a classy example). For the companies that sort through the Salvation Army's own secondhand goods, smaller with no government or lobbyist fighting for or with them – an invisible market that has lines and trade through family, close relationships fostered through business and an equal drive for everyone involved to make a profit.

There is, however, no market for clothing that is torn, excessively worn, or stained – the good clothing, the better conditioned ones have already been picked clean through by groups within Salvation Army. The smaller companies that make a living, sorting through even what the Salvation Army does not want, buyers are buying barrels of clothing and hoping they come across something in each that gives them something back.

Those that are no longer wearable, will go through shredders and become rags – because everyone needs rags. Old band t-shirts that did not pass inspection with the SA are going to be sold to shops that sell vintage clothing – careful eyes are being trained to sort out what is vintage and if something is worth anything at all. Luck is tied in heavily in the process.

The rest that pass inspection, also bundled in large barrels, are sold and transported in markets like Abiy Addi, the hundreds of stalls like a shopping mall with some stalls being specialized in baby clothing, blue jean stalls, Dockers and even curtains. Stalls, like any store, are geared towards certain customers. The higher-end mitumba stalls boasts this year's fashions, displayed tastefully – marketed for the upper class of the Ethiopian people rather than the poorer populous who could not spend the equivalent of five American dollars for a pair of Dockers – given the exchange rate, there is in fact only a select few that can afford such prices.

Those whom shop mitumba are discerning customers with an eye for what is _in_. The African mitumba markets are considerably more flexible than that any department store in America, bigger waists sell for less than those with smaller waists in pants; identical polo shirts could vary in price depending on colors and sizes as well. In African markets the price is not measured by mileage of fabric, but by what the consumers really, really wants.

Of course, because of the population's desire for such mitumba, one would think it a dirty way for power core countries to throw away their trash to poorer countries, yet for these poorer countries it is in fact a market avenue. America's profit on such a market is rather small, invisible or non-existent to where there is far more pros than cons in such an arrangement for poorer countries. This type of market provides an income, though it can be – like the businesses that sort through SA unwanteds – a fair amount of innovation, business-relations and luck that can bring in profit, break even or come out under. This avenue creates jobs, purpose for poor countries and people to create a structure to hold up the budding social; economic force this type of market brings to the people of Africa.

For a continent such as Africa, with many countries at war, villages starving, water scarce in some parts and medical aid is just as harsh to come by for many, it is a foot in the globalization market. Giving them a cut of the check or a foothold to not entirely sink under and find some way to stand on their own.

Stephanie had never found the topics of politics, economics or social structures as interesting as much as she had before coming to Africa. From her first foray into Cape Town to Abiy Addi, Leslie had warned her that keeping close attention to such things would benefit their group, as well as teach her some worldwide going-ons. Guess it says a lot that her attitude about that particular subject had changed drastically.

She is fascinated and horrified all at once.

* * *

Stephanie wears the dress with her boots, indulging in the rare ability of a shower, but she doesn't bother with makeup – for one she doesn't have any, second, she doesn't see the point. There are straps to hold up the dress, the fabric is plain cotton with the hemline slightly frayed, but she thinks they look like lightning bolts in a good breeze. She is with a small group from the camp, just five of them walking along well-lit streets. The night has dipped low and Stephanie can feel the prickling of goosebumps along her arms, but she doesn't mind it as she sees dancing in her future and that will surely work up a decent sweat.

The narrow, dark alleys are rare and few as many buildings of Abiy Addi are pressed against each other, smothering, stacking atop each other. Though the lower portion of the city is considered the most respectable, there are still forms of housing in the seedier upper part, cheaper on wallets due to the location and reputation. Much like the market, the structures are painted in many bright colors to contrast against the paved path. Those who are walking, stepping aside for both carts and cars, though those are much fewer, are more plentiful and crowd along.

Stephanie was laughing at some joke, one she quickly forgets, as something catches her notice. She is not sure, if it was not for her hunting or her lessons in tracking, that she would have spotted it otherwise. She sees movement in an alley and notes that where the group is headed is only half a block away. Making excuses, she steps to the side, looking busy with her bangs lowered over her face. Mostly she fumbles in the small clutched wallet that hangs from her wrist that is not easy to remove in case someone attempts to snatch it from her.

A boy, close to her age – maybe a year or two older, shifts in the shadows and belongs there. There is something achingly familiar with his movements, something that screams 'ninja' and 'Cass' at her that she has to physically stop herself from lurching backwards at both the stark reminder and to stop herself from leaping after him. He is merely in one of the few alleys, but she is use to darkness and little light in order to make her way through villages and forests. She is, easily, able to discern the brightness of red hair, shorn as close to the skull as possible. His skin is pale, contrasting against the darkness of the alley, but still able to blend in well. He is unnoticed by others, effortlessly, without making it obvious. He is tall, sinewy frame that is reaching out of boyhood and into a form of a man, long limbs looking less awkward than they might have just a year ago. His shoulders are rather nice, rounded with muscles in the shoulder, not as heavy as Batman but closer to a slighter frame like Tim's. But even she doesn't think Tim was as defined as this guy was.

 _It has been awhile_ , she hedges in the recesses of her mind.

The boy is handsome in a dangerous, fighter-way, sharp jaw and a long nose that looks like it has been broken a few times. A long scar reaches just below his left eye and curves out along the underside of his cheek, inches away from the corner of his lip. She is staring, she knows, feels an odd sense when she lifts her gaze to the shrew tilt of his eyes.

A predator stares right back at her. There is something dangerously flirty, warningly, in those molten hues that glint with amber fire. _I see you too_ , his gaze mocks and he angles his head to where the shadows blur enough to hide the lower half of his face, but keeps his eyes in focus. She feels an odd sense of excitement as she watches his gaze survey over her form, deliberately, in such a way she feels her breath hitch in her throat and keeps it there.

She does not shy away from his scrutiny. It interests him, she can tell, as he makes a purposeful step into the light and revealing the whole of his face again. She can tell by the slight smirk and canting of his head. And Stephanie knows she will not be catching up with the group at all that night.

* * *

His name is Jake, or that is the name he gives. Stephanie tells him the alias she has been using with anyone outside of Amahle and Leslie, "Nicole." She does not bother learning a last name and he does the same. The line of his shoulders still reminds her of Cass, the deliberation of his moves; even if he comes off as cocky and reckless, just screams a set of training she had only begun learning from the petite Asian girl of little words.

They take to the rooftops and though he is all asshole, he is testing her without being obvious about it. She identifies, distinguishes similarity of some of Batman's own manipulations with serious hours of contemplation. She does not know why, but she deals with it with ease, combating his testing waters with playful sprinkles of her brand of humor.

Stephanie does not allow him to sway her unless she wants to. He knows it.

He acts like he's pouring shot after shot, but Stephanie is pretty sure he has only had one with the rest being water – easily passing for vodka. She uses the same method, wanting to keep her wits about her. The bar they're in is truly, utterly, dodgy and she presents an image of total innocence that can be taken advantage of. She is also a magnet for trouble, a fact of life she does not hide from so much as she tends to enjoy it to some extent.

Trouble finds them in the form of a bar fight. Nothing on either of their parts, two overly drunk men and a falling out that, inevitably, draws in the rest of the crowd for one reason or another. Some escape.

It is not until she sees him fighting that she is damn sure he has had training similar to Cass. His hits are quick, precise. Though he has training similar to Cass, he is not as good as Cass. He gets the job done with his jabs, throws in witty retorts and flair of his own style into the moves. He is not efficient, but he is better than Stephanie; he gets a couple of hits to the face and stomach. He grins with all his teeth and goes in for more. Stephanie takes a few licks herself, but she stays back mostly to watch him fight, trying to ignore the sudden misery that blooms in her chest.

God, she _**fucking**_ _**misses**_ Cass.

There are police in cities like this, though they are sorely lacking in smaller villages, so they are quick to respond to reports of any disturbances. The blonde escapes with Jake out the back, running a few blocks away, deeper into the district and make it to a barely lit alley when they stop. They end up laughing after catching the others' gaze. Then he is kissing her and she kisses back.

Stephanie has kissed and flirted with boys and girls, some within their volunteer group; some strangers in cities they have passed. She has always made sure it is fun, friendly and never goes beyond a certain point. Despite how Jake calls to her, almost has her throbbing in need – he is a _great_ kisser – she can feel her own form quivering, it is not entirely desire.

She has never really known pure desire, despite having a baby. Sex has always been a complicated issue with her, about being wanted for all the wrong reasons, of lying there as a guy wastes a third of a second of her life before he's grinning like he just rocked her world. She feels nothing, but smiles, because sex became another mark of trying to earn affection, to being worthy when she was utter shit – full of depression and daddy issues that have fucked her up in so, so many ways.

Sex is not good for her – she is unsure if she will ever be okay when it comes to sex, the shame of voicing her wants, her needs. How little self-worth she has, leaving her feeling less than or just as much as before.

So she pulls back and gives him a smile she hopes conveys that this wouldn't be a good idea right now. Hopes to get across how sorry she is, but isn't sure **how** sorry she really is either. He does not press and he backs off.

He does not question her either, just steps back and presses a hand on her shoulder. It is comforting even if she isn't sure she was seeking comfort. His voice is gruff, teasing and filled with enough speculation she feels a lessening in the throbbing between her legs, "You got quite a few moves on you. Been a fighter long?"

"All my life." The response is automatic; she did not take time to deliberate a response after his question. She does not think she has anything to hide by that small admission, but the way she says it seems to convey that it is not a small admission, can hear both the pride and bitterness in her tone. She is surprised by how much she _means_ them. He does not look at her any differently, but the smirk he throws her says he gets it. She thinks he really, really does get it.

* * *

Stephanie doesn't ask him about where he is from, already feels like that is a taboo subject they've semi-established the first night they met. It is barely two days later, when she is in town again and he just appears at her side while she prowls the market goods. She does not ask him for much besides one thing, "So your fighting style… can you teach me?"

He does not even pretend to look skeptical, or even surprised that she is asking. Stephanie has managed to make it into town every night since her arrival. Each night has been spent scaling walls, hanging out on higher or low rooftops; they even managed to stop a robbery. They've practiced parkour moves with Stephanie learning how to jump to the streets below between buildings, to perch to the side with just a single arm and launches herself in the air to catch another building and climb with ease. It reminds her of her grapple, of moving between buildings that are higher than those in Abiy Addi, leaves her feeling like she's flying. Here, she feels hardcore like those characters in Assassins Creed, a game Tim liked playing when they were hanging out.

She's sure a videogame will never compare to the real feeling.

Surprisingly, despite what they have unanimously claimed as no-no's in what to talk about, they find many other things to talk about. Absent fathers, drug-induced mothers, childhood fights and what their individual dumbest moments are. They are careful to not give away names, but already they find they have a decent amount in common.

"I learned the skills from people I'm hiding from." She does stop and gawk at him, wondering why the hell he chose to respond with that. He just peers back at her, brooding brow and piercing eyes she had never thought to find attractive and yet, here she was, finding it attractive as she tried to reclaim scattered thoughts… Well, not entirely true. Tim sometimes got all angst and broody and she had – might still – love him.

"Huh?" She articulates this as gracefully as she can muster. He grips her elbow and gets her moving again as they had stopped on a path between stalls. She'd apologize, but she finds she is still struggling to catch up a bit.

"A group of people I got sold to as a kid. They were pretty lame and didn't like fun." He shrugs one shoulder carelessly, but something about the way he crosses his arm and averts his gaze as her picking up speed enough to understand this was something close to home. She does know Cass was raised in an environment that was less than stellar, that she was taught to fight but her abilities to read and speak were not a thing that was prioritized in her teachings. Cass never spoke about it much, but Stephanie was sure she heard enough to put two and two together, to get four.

She doesn't know who the group is, if it is a cult, some strange science program or whatever else to take kids and turn them into fighters. She just knows that Cass is an amazing fighter, is a _beast_. Cass does not have social skills, is lonely because of her inability to connect with others, felt inadequate because she had limited speech ability and didn't know how to read or write.

Stephanie knows her childhood was fucked up. She feels _**unadulterated loathing**_ on Cass' behalf. Jake is someone who was exposed to that part of Cass's life, even if they didn't know each other – she's not sure if they did or didn't. It inspires enough feeling to have her wrap an arm around his, drawing his attention.

"Don't brood. You're sexy with it, but the brooding is totally a-killin' the vibe of fun, free day." There is that roguish grin, those molten eyes that shimmer with a sly intellect she could almost see matching Tim.

"Knew you thought I was sexy."

"I don't think. I know." She counters easily in a sing-song voice, not even trying but succeeded at being off-key, unashamed to admit it. She matches his grin, leering. It is enough to fully ease whatever apprehensions his earlier admission inflicted.

They no longer meet in the city, but on the outskirts where Jake takes her to a grove that is less than a mile out. She dresses in her khaki shorts and a tank top, boots exchanged for a pair of tennis shoes she opted to barter for in the market. They are a bit worn, not as high up on her legs as her boots and that is perfect.

Stephanie doesn't know what she is expecting other than sparring, as that was a method Cass had preferred when teaching Stephanie some moves. Jake is a bit more methodical. He has routines; he walks her through each set, doing a specific number of them each time. At first, it looked as if they were just crawling along the ground, Jake called it bear crawling. She had to not touch the ground with her knees, moving her body along with the movements. So when she stepped forward with the right leg, her waist would go to the left, the same opposite. It reminded her a bit of some of the obstacle courses she did with Batman.

It has been months though, since she had done a set routine outside of exercises, outside of some of the routine she has set up. She believed her body would be hurting afterwards, but between hunting, tracking and some days where she practices fighting on an unsuspecting tree, she isn't as put upon as she had thought.

Jake isn't impressed, seems as if he had suspected it but he continues to put her through a workout. Halfway through, she comes to the conclusion he is testing where she is at on the physical level as well as just what she knows. She hadn't quite thought she learned as much as she is displaying when Batman, the Birds of Prey, Tim and Cass were training her. She is the more surprised of the two. However, she maintains, she still has a long way to go.

Stephanie had made sure that she would have the whole day off to devote to this training. Jake had promised her that she might need it. Despite how favorable the isometrics had started, he was right. As they worked through motions, exercises she had never tried, she began to feel the strain. Some of the earlier moves she remembered Cass teaching her, some were similar to things Dinah had taught her. She repeated motions, after motions with Jake correcting her form whenever it was off, continuously whacking her until she finally got it right.

She could feel exhaustion setting in before noon hit, having started real damn early in the morning. Jake, thankfully called a break, bringing out containers of rice with meat, sauce and two bread rolls. Steph wasn't sure if that was a good meal after such a workout, but she was so hungry she didn't care. He handed her a drink, some tea, and they settled themselves in for an hour.

Steph didn't know if she would be able to get back up afterwards, so she settled about for a topic of conversation, "How long are you staying?" That wasn't really the first topic she wanted to address, but the question slipped out with a tired, happy sigh. She didn't retract it.

"So sure I'm not staying here for the rest of my life, blue-eyes?" Jake took a swig of his canteen, but Stephanie didn't miss the look he gave her, bordering between warning and curious. She snorted at the nickname he gave her. After that first time in Cape Town, after everyone assumed she wore contacts or was blind, she and Leslie decided getting actual contacts was for the best. Here, in Africa, that hadn't come easy or cheap, but she wore them now and everyone who saw her before were appreciative of her taking out the 'freaky' contacts.

The irony, oh the irony.

"You don't look it, honestly. I guess I'm asking. I'll be moving away from here in a week." She shrugged one shoulder, because that was the truth and she had wondered if she could learn enough in that time of the type of fighting he and Cass did. She doubted it. Cass had implied it had taken her years, from a very young age, to be that good.

When Stephanie asked her an estimate on her being as good as the Asian girl, Cass had gotten quiet. Childishly, she had assumed it was because Cass might be saying she would never be that good – like Batman had once told her. She would never be as good as Batgirl, but she could be better than Tim… Later, even if she had wanted to believe it, she was sure Batman had merely been dangling a carrot in front of her with no real intention of her catching it...

Stephanie didn't know though, might never know now – she isn't sure.

Jake has his brow furrowed and took on an expression that was close to brooding. He was actually thinking, which can quickly become brooding if she left him alone in his own mind, she found. The once-dead girl threw her roll at his head and grumbled in annoyance when he caught it, taking a giant bite out of it.

So _rood_.

"Yeah, guess you will be with your humanitarian group." He chewed, but she didn't scold him since she ate like that. Leslie once pointed out how she threw her arms around her food, like she was guarding it from hands snatching it away from her, devouring the food as if it might be her last meal. Stephanie was pretty sure that came with the territory sometimes, living on Gotham streets. Gotta protect what you really need the mostest. Thank god her grammar-Nazi teacher wasn't around, she would never get away with that if she ever said it out loud, "But yeah, blue-eyes… I think I get what you're putting down."

… What was she putting down?

Her perplexed look must have given him the biggest clue ever since he guffawed, some bread crumbs escaping the horrors of his mouth. She just bore a look of displeasure at his pleasure of the change in circumstances. Tongue-twisters, Batman, we got a live one here.

"Meaning?" She decided to venture, pouting as he didn't fill the silence with anything more than his laughing at her, leaving it up to her to try and – Oh. Yup, the exercise must have fried her brain. She gave the food a suspicious glance and gave him an iffy look.

 _Or maybe he drugged the food?_

His returning look was less than thrilled – almost as if daring her to just say it. See? So rood. Rude as fuck.

"We'll wait and see, blue-eyes." It does not quite answer her overall concern, but what more can a girl do? Be persistent.

The second half was light sparring with him clearly taking it easy on her, but not in a condescending way, more of a gauging way. Tomorrow would be harder, where he wasn't just trying to get a feel for her skill level, how quick she is to react and think on her feet. Granted, she had been tired after the workout, but there was never a guarantee that an opponent would give her any rest. Black Mask and his men hadn't.

She does not feel the twinge of ire or acrimony she expected from such a thought. Her mild surprise gets her a cuff to the head, a warning blow; his eyes are narrowed knowingly that she had let her mind wander. She does not let that happen again for the night.

* * *

Jake is tall, reaching a height to where the top of her head is barely grazing to meet his shoulder. It is to his advantage that he has reach. Her shorter stature is not to be taken lightly either; it allows her a different advantage, just as his height gives him a similar different sort of advantage. It is to her advantage that she has flexibility.

She has managed to escape to meet him every morning she could for the week, before the volunteer service group moves away from Abiy Addi. They will head northeast, getting into more mountain villages, to work back northwest. Two more weeks have been allotted for their stay in Ethiopia, but Stephanie knows that those weeks will go quick as the settlements are sparse in the north than they were in the south. Cutting westward would take them to South Sudan.

This would be the last morning they could train together like this, not talking about any continuation since that first day. Stephanie has resigned herself to not bringing it up again, not out of fear of rejection, but because it was one of those inevitable things that would eventually come to pass whether it was now or later.

She already feels great improvement in her stance, cutting under a hit to bring a fist up to give him quite the shiner along his jaw. He is quick to capitalize on her being within his reach, lifting a leg to catch her side. She works through the pain by moving with the blow, kicking out his knee and launching herself backwards. He staggers, but is soon pursuing her to press his advantage. She twirls and kicks at a tree trunk, using angling in her foot to press upwards and catch a low hanging branch.

Parkour so has its advantages.

Jake only stops below before she is launching herself away. He can easily predict the path she will soar, to her landing, as she turns and flips, kicking out a leg to catch his temple. This gives her enough time to land before she goes sprawling in the dirt by the punch that nearly dislocates her jaw.

She'll have to work on making her actions seem more erratic, but she can't complain about it now.

She lost, but doesn't feel bad for it as they are both breathing heavy and have been at this for nearly an hour. The sun is slowly reaching to later in the noon, so she sits up and he sits before her, legs stretched out, just outside of her own bent knee range. He grips her hands and she grunts, but falls into an easy stretch, going backwards, forward like a seesaw. But the routine is now familiar, comforting after such an exertion.

"You just keep getting better and better, blue-eyes. You did some of this before?" He grins and though the words are posed like a question, it really isn't. They have had this talk before, but by now it is a sorta-joke. She had some training on this fighting style before; interested in the sleuth ways Cass could get around with nary a sound. She tells him she has come across it previously, just never clarified if it was friend or foe. He doesn't press though, just nods and says she is lucky, it makes teaching her less of a chore – easier.

She is not sure if there is subtle praise in that or not. With Jake it was sometimes hard to tell. Stephanie decides she'll take it as a compliment either way. She is not as good as Cass, probably will never be on Cass's level, but whenever she meets Cass again – _she will see Cass again_ – she wants to have a better chance at fighting her best friend. To show that she has developed, even if she wonders if she'll ever be forgiven for staying away like this.

She decides _not_ to think of a different alternative right now. Focuses instead on her desire to show Cass that she can become a better fighter and finds that this is merely pride, excitement to show-off, instead of a desire to prove herself worthy. And she feels lighter to discover that.

Jake takes her into the woods, a regiment of the training that began on day two. Her tracking and hunting skills are put to use in how to conceal herself from the enemy as well as discover where her enemy is. Jake is caught more often than naught and she preens every time she manages it. Jake is not as amazing at the stealthy stuff as Cass is, but he is good. Better than good and she has learned much, much more.

She makes a note to stop trying to compare the two, but it is harder than one would think. Cass is a bit shorter than her, a slight Asian girl with secret smiles, but her eyes shine brightly with her emotions more than anything else – especially when she trusts you. She is quiet and unassuming, creepy to those who are not use to her. Jake is tall, growing corded muscle mass with his ginger, buzz-cut hair and whiskey eyes that scream danger. He smirks and talks up a storm when in the mood, with a side to be ominously moody. He packs attitude while Cass blends into the shadows. They are different, but they're both dangerous. They have years of training with similar looks in their eyes that says they have seen some _ **shit**_.

She is from Gotham, one of the most fucked up places on the planet, and _that_ says something.

There is loneliness though, clouding over both that try to blend into the shadows but stick out in a crowd – even if the crowd doesn't notice them. It is not a conscious thing, she knows, but it is there and she identifies it too easily. What exactly does that say about her?

She is MEGA awesome, that's what. _Shut up_.

They continue stretches after the stealth exercise and there is a reluctance to see the day end. Steph is sure it is mostly on her end, but she is sure that Jake is a dash reluctant as well. From the first night they've met, he was always on alert, carefully casting his gaze about to study the shadows, the people and locating exits. The blonde, once-dead, girl can see that she has earned a modicum of his trust if he is willing to give her his back by the end of the week, when that was not a possibility early on in the week. It seems surreal, but she is not about to argue good fortune when it smiles her way.

She knows she has not fully earned his trust though, but she is okay with that – she does not trust him entirely either. There is a connection, something that has built up from the first night they both realized they were wolves amongst sheep –already, she knows, they have come a long way since then.

"Hm." She startles, forced to swallow the sandwich she brought, at the random noise Jake emits. For how much he can talk, when in a mood, he is not one that usually minces words. Or the type of emo kid to emit a single sound out just to convey some portion of conversation like some anime shows she recalls before the start of her crime fighting career. Contact blue eyes narrow on Jake with impatience, hoping to convey the message of get-on-with-it demand.

He had already finished his portion of the lunch and she marvels at his ability to just scarf down food sometimes. Seriously? Does he, like, take two large bites and its done?! She has to halt the thought when she takes into account that she just finished her portion.

 _Hey, Kettle – you know that color isn't a good fit for you, right?_

Honey brown hues are centered on her in a face that is unreadable to her. He is intense and focused, but she has no way of describing how he is looking at her right now. It bears down on her oddly, the stare, but she doesn't shift away or forward. She simply waits.

That seems to be all that is required.

"Alright, blue-eyes, you've gotten better. I'll come with you for another month, after that, I got places to be. You better remember the exercises on your own. I didn't put in all that effort for you to be sloppy." The words take a minute to register and she is squealing, propelling herself forward. She has a momentary flash of satisfaction of seeing the surprised, panic look on Jake's face before she has her arms around him and face buried in his chest.

If he had wanted too, he could have hurt her or punched her, but he didn't. Instead, he lets her be _such a girl_ and lets her hug him.

She is not _hysterical_ as Jake will later describe it. She merely has too much bubbling happiness and no words other than a repetition of, "THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!" She will, however, deny to her next dying day that she almost sounded like she was sobbing.

When she informs Leslie of the happenings, of Jake and his teaching her – despite Leslie's reluctance on Stephanie's insistence of training - it seems to go easy from there. They can always use more guards. Africa is beautiful, but like any other place on Earth it has its share of unrest and corruption. So no, no one was about to object to taking on a guy who looks like Jake to be an extra pair of eyes and hands when traversing the delicate balance of Africa's countries.

* * *

South Sudan was originally part of a larger country, Sudan, before gaining independence in 2011. Officially, it is called the Republic of South Sudan, landlocked with Sudan to the north, Ethiopia to the east, Uganda to the south, the Democratic Republic of the Congo to the southwest, and Central Africa Republic to the west. A vast portion of the country is made up of swamps, with the White Nile as the source for most of the water that makes up the marsh land.

The country's history is littered with Civil Wars, going as far back as 1956, while it was part of a larger territory of land. Since gaining independence, Civil Wars still break out with the most recent one beginning in 2013 – already a sticky situation that they could not avoid due to the country being a United Nations member state. Stephanie feels even better about bringing Jake on, even if she feels guilty for pulling him into such conditions, as some of the conflicting issues and violence within South Sudan is due to ethnicity.

It is also one of the major reasons why they were going to have to attempt their operations here. Though they have tried to avoid these situations in the past, still will with other countries they have yet to even go near, the wars have made it hard for any medical personnel. There are bases, or areas, set up where the United Nation peacekeepers are working and where they were headed. In South Sudan they would not be able to move about the country as they could before, traversing between settlements, going to the people. With the war, already three million people have been displaced in a country with a population of twelve million. Two million have moved from their homes, moving within the borders of the country while another million have fled for neighboring countries like Kenya, Sudan and Uganda.

At current a cease fire agreement had been made while negotiations are underway. Stephanie has little hope to believe it will hold as, according to what she has read, the 'cease fire' order is usually broken by either side. A situation that has already occurred a handful of times with little results besides more bloodshed.

"I always knew blondes were dangerous." Jake mutters at her side and it takes everything in Stephanie to not elbow him. Hard. They're at the gates where the UN has set up 'immunity' grounds, taking up a large area and where the two million displaced residents have set up shelter because of the war, a barrier is erected around the perimeter; a chain-link fence that does little to hide the green, blue and white tents. She can see smoke from fires wafting up into the air, sleeping bags or flattened boxes laid about for beds for those who could not fit inside the tents. People are milling about, watching them while clinging to the fence, all are clothed, but Stephanie can see dressing of the medical kind littered about bodies.

She notes the towers of guards too, guns out and ready – soldiers stationed around the outside. She can see a mix of U.S., South Sudan, France and United Kingdom military mixed in.

The blonde vigilante stands in the bed of one of the trucks, leaning against the back of the cab with her arms folded atop, her chin resting on her arms. Her back is bent over, but the position doesn't encumber her like it would if Jake were to attempt it. He is standing by her, turned halfway towards her with his arms crossed over his chest and hip against the edge of the roof. The vehicles are all getting checked, whatever weapons they had were given to others until they passed inspection; with half of those weapons going into a storage locker.

' _Because_ , Steph snorts, _if one wanted to do harm then they_ _ **obviously couldn't**_ _if you take away the guns._ ' Sarcasm, it is a skill that she can enjoy.

"You really want to say that out loud when the inspector is coming up?" Jake sounds amused and it is with a flush of embarrassment, followed with a groan that she comes to the horrid conclusion she said that with an outside voice.

She had been doing so well, too!

"Did they hear?" She asks, her voice muffled by the arms she is trying to bury herself in. She doesn't think she is succeeding.

"Nope." He pops that p with some obnoxious coating all over it. A peek up from beneath her bangs reveals a grin that is meant to be asshole-ish. He succeeds at it very well. His face is a giant asshole to her right now.

She lets the thought linger and giggles. The grin is gone and he is giving her a narrowed-eyed chary look, the edges of his mouth turned down in a bit of a pout. Before he can say anything, they are made to jump out and the truck is being looked over. The process is slow, but nowhere near as bad if they had continued with the missionaries and other groups they had started with back in Cape Town. Eventually, they're all in. Only the guards get to keep their weapons, any others who were carrying are going in without.

There are many people to see and not enough time in the day. Dr. Leslie, Stephanie and the rest of the medical staff are greeted with a line that is over a mile long. The doctors that are here, both provided by the UN and volunteers of other groups, look haggard and worn. Stephanie has already learned that doctors, or anyone with medical knowledge, even if one doesn't have a PH.D in medicine, are a commodity that is sorely needed with every stop they make at any village. That the doctors that do live in Africa are too few and too far for many, too expensive when one is already struggling without water and steady food supply.

The signs of hunger are no longer as shocking to her, but she still feels an uncomfortable pressure in her eyes and chest. She no longer has to excuse herself to work at not having some hysterical attack. Malnourishment in a child is even worse; she often went without eating the rest of the day whenever they encounter such conditions in previous settlements. South Sudan, Stephanie muses as she eyes the line, will be a period of fasting for her.

The blonde teenager is use to trauma now, those whom are attacked by animals or the attacks by raiders. She is use to death, has crossed the line of someone dying on her when she could have sworn she threw everything she had in saving their life. It does not get easier, but how she handles each situation does. So when the first people arrive in her and Leslie's designated area, she does not wince at open, bleeding wounds and an eye that is missing. The teenager has seen war, has seen the victims of war and been a victim of a type of war herself… She does not cringe, but smiles for a little girl that clings to her grandpa's remaining arm. The male is older with wrinkles so heavy they droop over his sockets, sagging at his jowls and creates folds in his face. His smile, open and without animosity for all that he has suffered – or too use to being a casualty – is toothless. He has dark skin, both from the sun and his heritage, dark chocolate with freckles shades darker lining his cheeks and shoulders. He is bald with white hairs sticking out of his ears; Stephanie makes notes to check his head for cancerous abrasions, blood, mingled and stark, stick to the strands. His granddaughter, who couldn't be older than five, is a youthful face that looks too skinny with wide, dark eyes that are too old already. Their hands are clutching each other, comforting and desperate in the face of a stranger. Unwilling to let go of the only family, Steph wonders, they have left? The girl wears a pink dress that has a dark stain splattered over her chest, drooping into a dip to show skin clinging to bones. The man wears a shirt and pants two-sizes too big for a skinny, elder frame that is bowed at the back. He has a string, looks like yellow yarn, threaded through the loops of his pants to ensure they don't fall down.

Stephanie breathes deeply through her nose, but keeps her smile on and she infuses as much warmth in the action as she can; asks, in English first, "What can I do for you?" And that works since English, surprisingly, is the official language of South Sudan. She does not let pity shine through, squashes it down because pity is no use here. As a fellow survivor, pity is unwanted and abrasive – too much. She does not coddle, as she lets the girl and grandfather take a seat on the table she motions towards. She is not condescending when she asks about both his wounds and ailments, but neither is she cold and clipped, because being dismissive is almost as bad as pity – it is worse when it comes from someone who is meant to provide care.

She lets the girl list what she notes, in her worry, as issues her grandfather faces even if the man does not voice those. She reports his breathing is short, that he limps and clutches his leg at odd times. The girl notes down wounds that are not in plain sight, fears infection in some of the smaller ones. With the girl already telling things the old man believed he should not bother Stephanie with, the man describes how he got them and when.

Recent it seems, just two days ago and has waited for care since after the immediate bandaging, ensuring that no life was likely to be lost, before being told to 'wait in line to be seen' a line that never seems to end.

Bile would burn her throat less, Stephanie thinks.

Stephanie is not glib or facetious in responding to the girl. She asks the girl questions, does not baby her speech, and does not talk down to her. It would be an insult and slight to a girl who already is more adult than Stephanie has ever been in her life.

And how fucked up was that?

The girl has seen war and she sports her own wounds of it. The more obvious ones are the scratches Stephanie sees on the girl's legs, lower arms and the bandage on the girl's cheek. When Stephanie asks about those, the girl clams up, but the grandfather is more than willing to dish out. A chunk of the girl's cheek is missing from shrapnel; mentions that he fears bits of it are still imbedded in the muscles that are left there. The scratches are also caused from smaller bits from a stray blast, but the most worrying is the cheek.

It is the same blast that has lost one of his eyes and his arm – likely the source of the majority of their wounds. She asks questions on history, knows it is a long shot, asks about any other family and is not surprised to find it is just the two of them. The man's wife, his son and daughter-in-law – the girl's parents – all died in the blast that had left them with the damage inflicted.

Despite the older man's protests, Stephanie works on him first, checking the arm and eye socket where his eye was damaged. It had to be removed, considered too badly gone to be saved – an operation that happened before Stephanie arrived. She sets about making sure the area is cleaned, offers to seal the eye permanently, which she schedules since she is not a doctor and ensures him that surgery is a different priority than those waiting in line to merely be 'checked'. The arm was cleaned of debris, so she goes about cleaning it again, fastening straps and ointment before bandaging back up.

"Will you undress?" She makes sure to ask instead of demand, following the request with the reasons why she is asking. Leslie carries out the prostate exam, after finishing with the other patient from behind a curtain and leaves Stephanie to take care of the girl now.

She focuses on the cheek after the initial checkup. She uncovers the wound, does not wince when congealed blood that creates a string from cheek to bandage. She uses a finger, her hands encased in gloves. She cleans off the excess blood, already calculating the pain pills the girl will need for chewing – knows that jello is a luxury not offered here - since there is a clear hole in the cheek, able to see missing teeth and gums from beneath. She finds pieces of metal. Precise and careful, she does not let her hand shudder as she uses tweezers to pick out the bits. She offers pain medicine beforehand and numbs the cheek and gums. Leslie has long since trusted her to do this. Stephanie knows to never do any of this unless she was more than sure of herself, knows she should not attempt this without training. She has the training and Leslie lets her, knowing she can do it.

Stephanie never operates on the patients though.

She does not know how much time has passed; just that she has removed twenty-three pieces and is re-cleaning the cheek, dressing it up in bandages. Throughout she talks to the girl, never asks questions though since the girl has numbing solution around her mouth, has pain pills working in her system already. She just talks, telling stories – she is stealing from Disney with no copyright infringement intended – and tells the stories of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and leads up to Merida, Elsa and Anna. The stories are short, Stephanie is not a storyteller like Amahle, but she doesn't think the girl minds.

Her legs are quicker work, though looks like most of the metal was removed from the scratches along her legs and lower arms. Leslie ends up prescribing the pain pills and tells the man he will have his operation two days from now, leaving the eye open any longer will only invite a contagion. They did what they could and while it is not always satisfying, because they always feel like they should be doing _more_ , they cannot always do more than they have.

It sucks.

Stephanie continues through the next patient, the next and the next. It is not until Amahle comes that Leslie and Stephanie comprehend that they've been at this for nearly ten hours, and honestly, that is not the longest day they've had. Still, they trade places with whoever is to take over for them. The women eat, joined by Jake. Those who were guards to the caravan ended up being pulled into the round-a-clock roster of guard duty around the perimeter. Jake doesn't look as exhausted as Stephanie feels, but she's sure he had a long day too.

There are no woods for her and Amahle to escape into tonight, just an open plateau that is surrounded by chain-link fences, tents and millions of other bodies. Amahle stays with her in the tent that night in lieu of their limited options. Stephanie expects to babble, but she feels too empty to do so. Worries, for a moment, if she finally became dead to the suffering she has seen and then wonders if that is a bad thing, at all.

Amahle does not tell her stories this night, but nuzzles her old, cold nose against Stephanie's own and sings a lullaby. Steph assumes it is a lullaby, she doesn't know as it is in a language she does not understand. But it is lyrical and sounds calming. Stephanie drifts off with no fight.

* * *

Stephanie meets diplomats, celebrities, businessmen/women, doctors (not all of them of medicine), scientist and good Samaritans that make up the party of UN officials. She works side by side with several of them; sometimes one or two of them come to help her and Leslie in the tent. A few move along the too-long line to give out food, water, clothes and other amenities. Some even apply first aid to the more minor of wounds to diminish the work so that they and the other medical personnel can focus on the more pressing matters.

Dr. Abraham Erskine, a Bavarian scientist who knows his way around to help them and not be in the way (like some of the celebrities, though they mostly stick with passing out food and such). Stephanie decides, upon him introducing himself, is that his accent is adorable.

"I'm –," She pauses and coughs to cover it up. She almost tells him her name is Stephanie when she looked into those warm brown eyes, "Nicole." She clears her throat; offers him the hand she did not cough in – because ew – and shakes his hand. His smile is kind, gentle and effortless. It is not a practiced on like the diplomats and celebrities. It is not a smile that is overly bright and full of fake cheer, it is not tight or frigid like the rest of the businessmen/women, doctors, scientist and volunteers. It has no pretenses to fall behind.

Despite his accent, he can pronounce perfect English with the slightest inflection, "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Nicole."


	4. New and Old Wounds

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Marvel either, okay. I am merely using the good doctor. He will be AU, because while I am basing a large portion of Dr. Erskine's on Marvel's Doctor from Captain America's movie, he will be a tad different in some respects. For one, he's in modern times. Two, he never made the soldier serum, though his family has a history of trying to do so. Worked for the U.S. government to make it possible, but the discovery was not his. So yeah, don't sue me since I am not being paid anything!

So Slade's origin story – I admit I am not altogether familiar with it – is unchanged, including whoever it was who made the serum they used on him.

Again, the good Dr. Erskine will not be fully Marvel vision, but I loved the guy in the movie (It's been years since I've seen it, though!) and wanted to bring him to life here. Positive role model for a broken (slowly being repaired) girl who doesn't have a lot in life besides her two grandmothers (Leslie and Amahle) and Jake.

Admittedly, I make a lot of references – which I can imagine Stephanie doing both with random facts and pop culture. What can I say; she's quirky and full of humor?

So with that in mind, proceed!

* * *

Trust doesn't come easy for Stephanie. Yeah, she might hero worship a few people, but that doesn't equate as trust. She might have been trying to validate herself to Batman, but again that isn't trust. When it came to her identity, she had no say – they already knew it, had figured it out and she was forced to accept it. She had hated it when Robin – Tim – had used her name before she began to accept she had feelings for the jerk, but she hadn't fully trusted Tim either.

Trust had been a funny thing with many an adult in Stephanie Brown's life. Her father cheated on her mom, either with other ladies, his pals or his stupid life of crime. He was not a trustworthy figure in any sense. He could not be depended upon to be there for important events, be there to put food on the table; was unreliable to not lose his temper and take it out on his family. Her father had created a precedent that would infect many a relationship she had with men, older and younger.

Stephanie had loved her mother, but one can love someone and never trust them either. Her mother was there while her father was physically gone, but with her addictions, she might as well have not been around at all some days. She could not trust her mom to tell the truth about her _needs_ when it came to the bottle of opioids, or whatever she decided to get hyped up on. She could not trust her mother to remember to pay the bills – though her mother had, somehow, managed to maintain a job. She did not trust that one day her mother wouldn't be there the next.

It was through her parents, the foundation for any child's life and how they will come to view the world, that Stephanie learned that trust wasn't something she can give, not easily. Stephanie determined that she could be friendly, could despise bullies, could accept different people from different backgrounds, could love people and yet never trust them. From her father, his lack of being there, of not being good enough had stimmed a need, an obsession to be wanted, needed or even found worth being given a damn about. From her mother, she wanted to become something more than her parents, to remember the good of her mother – being there, caring in her lucid moments – but inherited her mother's need for _crutches_ , to be substantiated through others.

Trust was a precious, precious gem that Stephanie did not give easily, just as she didn't particularly feel trustworthy herself. She wasn't because she had been too easy to manipulate, following orders or not. Stephanie wasn't sure she trusted herself, sometimes – even if she was all she could trust on most days.

It was a rancorous cycle.

She likes to think she trusted Tim, but Stephanie does try to not lie to herself – tries not to too much, anyway. Others will lie to her, tell her things she does or doesn't want to hear, so who else will be truthful with her, if not herself?

She hadn't trusted Tim, she had loved the boy – might still love him in a faint, fond way that distance and perspective hasn't quite erased. Is not sure she will ever stop loving Tim as the first boy she has loved. She hadn't known his name, had – tried to convince herself – accepted that she might never know his name, but hadn't trusted she would ever learn it. Just as she hadn't trusted that there weren't other girls who might know Robin or 'Alvin', might have to be content with a love connection of not knowing his real name… Worse, perhaps they had known his real identity, but she wasn't going to ever know.

Yeah, yeah, rehashing some shit here, but sometimes these things needed mulling over more than once.

Batman wasn't someone she trusted either, but she had wanted to approve of her so badly. There was that unspoken rule that unless Batman approved of you, you couldn't be a crime fighter, if Batman did then everyone had to see your potential. Batman was that stupid beacon of 'make it or break it', the final nail in the coffin or whatever other lame cliché that aptly described the situation. That Batman, for better or for worse, had to give the stamp of acceptance on before anyone cared enough to put time and effort into. The Birds of Prey had trained her, only because Batman approved. When he hadn't, they stopped.

He was so bi-polar! He took her on, said she didn't have what it took and then accepted her as Robin! The man shifted his fucking tune to whatever music he wanted to play, played and pulled strings so that others moved to his melody. Stephanie might have (not really) placed her trust in Batman, but she hadn't trusted in him not to take that from her. She hadn't trust him to not pull the rug out from under her. Again.

The Birds of Prey, she practically ate up whatever crumbs she was given. Dinah and Helena were kind to her, accepted her even if they only trained her because Batman gave the okay. Out of anyone from the Batman group, they had related to her easily and were not as stingy with praises.

Because! SURPRISE! Stephanie loved being praised.

Not that she really needed those, but it was nice to be told she had talent instead of being told she wasn't good enough. Barbra tolerated her, she wasn't unkind, but she wasn't friendly and accepted her presence in the clock tower because of Batman, Dinah, Helena and Cass. Otherwise, Stephanie is sure that she would never be allowed in the base. She trusted that Oracle wouldn't withhold information that might cost a life, but she didn't trust Oracle beyond that, even if she had looked up to the original Batgirl like a role model.

Cassandra Cain was likely the closest Stephanie ever got to fully trusting someone. Sure, Cass would knock her out so she didn't enter fights. Stephanie wasn't skilled enough and while some part of her believed that was a lack of trust to think Stephanie couldn't handle herself, she can be honest enough – now – to know that she really had lacked the skill. That Cass had knocked her out because Stephanie would have jumped in and Cass would have been focused on keeping Stephanie safe. Cass always fought to inflict minimum damage and Stephanie's involvement ensured that damage would never be minor – likely would have been the one damaged instead. Cass had trusted Stephanie with a vulnerable part of herself, admitting that the current Batgirl, badass and a God amongst mortals, couldn't read or write.

They had trusted each other to have the other's back, on and off the field. Cass was teaching Stephanie to fight, to better stand against the horrors that walked the streets of Gotham. Stephanie was teaching Cass how to read, to write and to socialize. They had formed a bond that allowed them to read each other in ways they hadn't thought another could. Cass understood body language, Stephanie understood people.

It was beautiful and scary, but Cass always defied everything Stephanie once thought impossible.

Trust was still a commodity that was a prized currency that Stephanie doesn't give away for free. Stephanie finds that those who have her trust are few and precious, death gave her a new perspective on even this subject as well.

Omigawd, she has too much thinking time.

* * *

Three weeks are spent with a daily routine that is both monotonous and hectic. The mornings are filled with her and Jake's training. Stephanie almost points out to him that the agreed time frame of a month he had given her has come and gone a week ago (she doesn't tell him). They make it a game and an exercise of sneaking around guards, climbing the towers, perching high above men who should be looking out far and wide. They end up doing the job for them. Jake and Stephanie can make it over the fence and to an area that allows them room to fight, the sparring sessions growing in intensity and focus as each party ups their game. Jake and Stephanie find, with pride and bemusement, an increase in both their skills. Pride for Steph, bemusement for Jake – that loser.

Stealth has become a game, of hiding in plain sight because the base is on a part of land where trees are not as plentiful. There are marsh lands that take up every other part of the country besides this particular spot, so they get creative and find ingenious, hilarity in how they pull off half the shit they do.

Jake paints himself and scares the shit out of Stephanie, he was against a tent, hidden from view and got the drop on her. Stephanie gets him back by imitating mole people, burying herself beneath ground and waiting for him. She will tease him to the end of days at how girlie his scream was. They do this when they are not in the set schedule of training, during off time when neither is usually on guard for antics like this.

It becomes, quickly, a standard. Paranoia, already settles nice and comfy, like an old friend, within their beings. It has its perks and its pitfalls – frenemies to any vigilante.

Mornings and afternoons for Stephanie, are filled with patients – their needs, their wants. Some are heartbreaking, some standard. Not all her patients are civilians caught in violence of war. Some have been untouched by the war besides being displaced from their homes and into a tent within the perimeter of the fences. Some are soldiers, mostly those who are guarding the UN operatives, the civilians here on immunity ground. Some are the UN officers themselves. Each visit can go from one extreme to the next, depending on who steps through the entrance and what troubles they bring.

Nights can drag, sometimes because of operations needed to be done. Stephanie preps the room and observes, but she doesn't step into the operating room because she has no training for it. She is not licensed to do so, but sometimes she can be invited in to aid in certain procedures.

If her nights are not taken up with medical duties, she spends her nights with Amahle. The woman has taught her the stars, quizzes her on their position, her position and how she could find her way back to camp. It takes Stephanie awhile to get those certain quizzes. Still, she tries and begins to get the hang of them. The old woman, much like a doting, dotty grandmother, begins teaching Stephanie Arabic – Stephanie can speak Njerep now. The lessons on languages are easy in comparison with Amahle instructing Stephanie on runic symbols, which Stephanie is skeptical of, but with the way Amahle grins with a feral disposition she throws herself into the study. Tales are still woven, some similar and some different with different experiences to be learned.

"Mistakes a' wepeated ova' and ova', but eventually, the lessons stick, my kindwed." Amahle breathes against Stephanie's ear, comforting and close. Her aged voice is soft, purring against the shell of Stephanie's ear.

* * *

Sundays are Stephanie's only off day from the medical tents. Mornings are still with Jake. Afternoons are split between Leslie's lessons, though they keep some of them brief. -Stephanie begs to rest, willfully taking the blame despite how they both can see the bags underneath Leslie's silver-hazel eyes. The guides and guards who are willing to teach Stephanie are busy with their new duties, though some cram in some time with the adorable (She so is, don't judge) teenage blonde. She finds French harder to learn than the four Bantu languages she knows, but is assured she's making progress. The guards joke she is a better shot than they, still, they've decided to teach her how to make explosives out of household items… Stephanie is suddenly unsure if they have too much time on their hands, but doesn't voice it.

She _gets_ to make things go _BOOM_ , after all. Don't worry, they are small like firecrackers and set up perfectly safe… Even if they're telling her how to increase portions to make things bigger to set shit _ablaze_.

Seriously, maybe guard duty is more asinine than she gave it credit for. Jake agrees with her when she brings it up.

Stephanie feels as if her days are full, with little to no room for deviation. There are very few, Sundays, however, that Stephanie finds her time not filled with something, she is almost unsure what to do with any downtime besides practicing knife twirling, a language or reading through books, medical, political and of other destinations.

It is on a rare afternoon of quiet that _something_ different is presented to her.

One morning she comes across Dr. Erskine just after a training session with Jake. She is in jean shorts, a gray tank top and her white, well-worn-in sneakers. She is covered in sweat and muscles that ache, sweetly. It is a time of quiet when she happens to look into a tent and there he sits, flap open – Stephanie has never seen that flap open, didn't know it was his tent – reading a book. A cursory glance reveals the topic is on ethics. She can hear, like background noise, the sounds of goats, cows, and the morning bustle of those who are early risers.

"Miss Nicole, morning." Stephanie stiffens, hadn't made the conscious decision to stop, when brown eyes stare into her contact-covered gaze over the top of the book. She makes a very, too-conscious effort to loosen her frame and reminds herself that Dr. Erskine is not a threat - yet. Due to her near slip-up with giving him her name, Stephanie learns to be wary of the doctor, even if she knows that it was not his fault. His eyes though, those are totally on him. Warm, rich chocolate that is the same as his smile, gentle, kind and filled with something Stephanie struggles to identify. He is keenly observant, has seen him use those eyes every time he discusses something with warring leaders, the diplomats, other scientists and the patients whenever he helps her and Leslie in their tent.

Yet she can't help but feel like a child caught in those eyes. Feels circumspect under his gaze because she _wants_ to trust that stare. And it _alarms_ her.

"Morning, Dr. Erskine, catching up on some reading?" Stephanie blurts out the question, rushed and with a need to not let silence stretch after his greeting. She can feel embarrassment coloring her neck and ears, but keeps her gaze fixed on those brown eyes that light up with his smile. He is an older man, not as old as Leslie and Amahle, but a bit older than her dad was if not in the same age bracket. He is balding with dark, peppered hair around the lower portion of his head, a few white strands stick out. His jawline is covered by the closely-trimmed beard, dark brown, covering his chin, lower cheeks and around his lips. Paired with the round, silver-colored lined glasses, perched on a long, slightly hooked nose – he looks distinguished, intelligent and only highlights his gentle outlook further. Without the glasses, Stephanie thinks, he could look even younger than her dad the last time she saw him.

Dr. Erskine is slight of frame, bird-like, but fit for a man of his age. Stephanie has only seen him in beige shorts and white buttoned up shirts, usually rolled three-quarters up his arms. His arms are trim, fitted, but do not boast of hours of working out. His hands though, are calloused, worn and show character of work-ethic. His legs are that of a man who runs, but Stephanie can't decide if it is because he runs around doing one task to the next or if he does it in his leisure time.

"Heavy or light, it is good to start off the morning with thoughts that inspire change either within ourselves or the domain that surrounds us." The doctor responds, snapping the book shut and holding it up for her to see the cover fully before he sets it down. He was lounging back in his cot, but now he sits up straight and waves to a small, clothed stool. Clearly, it is an invitation. Stephanie sees no reason to not accept it, even as her hackles rise. A voice warning her to run from older men that seem too fatherly - and steps inside, taking a seat on the very stool he had offered. It is small, but the cloth of the seat holds her and she uses her knees to fold her arms upon.

Dr. Erskine often worked in the medical tents, so Stephanie has worked alongside the man often enough to know where the conversation was going. The older gentleman loved philosophical, ethnical questions. The blonde teenager was not surprised to find that Erskine was a very, very, very intelligent man with several doctorates in medicine, chemistry and computer science. A brilliant scientist, highly sought after for his work while running his own business. Stephanie wasn't sure what it was –hadn't wanted to pry just yet – on what kind of business he runs. From their conversations, Steph had been able to gather that Erskine believed in the highest human values; cheerful and serene when handling patients and fellow mankind. He often appeared wise, debating heroes, legends, corruption and humanity with those who would engage him. Stephanie was an amateur, but she often found herself participating in several different debates, despite her own caution in regards to Dr. Erskine.

He seemed to enjoy what a younger mind often came up with. It sets her on edge even as it makes her preen.

Right now, he was staring at her in a way that made her feel like he could see beneath the name 'Nicole', could see past her contacts and see beyond her scars. Once more making her feel like a little girl she no longer was, but had once wanted to be. Under that gaze, still wanted to be.

' _If someone could see to the value of someone's soul, Dr. Erskine could.'_ Stephanie felt this to her very core.

"What's the topic today, doc?" Her voice came out softer and more tired than she had intended, the way his gaze studies her reminds her that she had gotten up early and had been training with Jake for hours. She offered a smile, small and secretive. Worry shone in those eyes, but understanding did too – Stephanie wasn't sure what he understood, though, but was gonna take it.

"If heroes, the likes of Superman and Wonder Woman, have such power, the ability to stop wars, corruption and bring about peace, should they not do so?" The doctor's voice is light, somewhat airy as he looks out of the open flap of his tent and to that of beyond. His brows though, are low over his eyes, deep in thought and looking more troubled than what his voice gave away.

"You mean if they stopped fighting like the kind happening here?" Stephanie asks, but she already knows the answer. She wants to say she is surprised by the topic, but she is not. They both might have danced around heroes and what made them heroes, what made man both horrible and great, but this topic certainly seems to be up his alley.

He nods, but says nothing more, those piercing russet eyes on her. Stephanie, naturally, wants to be somewhat flippant with her response, to joke about how the UN might not be needed, how women in places like Somalia would not be raped or treated like cattle. Wants to praise the idea of a world without terrorists, but stops herself. Because even while all of that sounds great, what would the end be?

Superman is a beacon of hope, showing compassion for both his friends and his enemies. If someone like him could get tired of the world, would want to control it to stop every bad thing from happening, what would that say about humans? What would that say about Superman? If he gave up hope, if _he_ could lose his compassion and just end threats before they happen, what did that make him instead? _Not a hero_ , Stephanie swallows and doesn't care that it hurts.

Wonder Woman is a warrior, who fought for mankind – still does. She has been a source of strength for many girls and women, promoting her 'sisters' to rise up and embrace their strength. She is peace and truth, she fights but her aim was never to end war or suffering, but to inspire humans to want both, to work to end their own suffering and war. She does not see women as better than men, but is a symbol to fight for better, to want better. If Wonder Woman started fighting battles to end all wars, is she giving up on people seeking their own peace, their own truth? Would she, essentially, be saying that mankind is without hope for either too?

Would they, or heroes like the Flash, the Green Lanterns, eventually say they can't trust mankind to find their own way? Would they, the heroes, seek to right the world in _their_ image of what peace and prosperity is? No image is without fault and no one has a perfect image of what Utopia is besides abstract concepts of no war, no hate and the like. But it would not be a world gained, but given – a world not made for the many, but the few. Even then, that is not hope, compassion, justice, truth, peace or any other symbol heroes are made of. That's a world of illusions, false and more broken than a world with war, famine, disease, corruption and suffering… And how fucked up is that?

"Where would it end?" Stephanie asks after a length, "Choices, they would be taking away people's choices, their freedom. Just because you have power to take away war and suffering, doesn't mean you should. There would be many, on the offset, which would support them, but they wouldn't understand that they lose something else in the process."

"Humans make their suffering, you mean?" His tone is inquisitive, but there is a note of a _push_ within the question that Stephanie ignores.

"Yeah," Stephanie fully agrees, pushes back with full on gusto, "we create our suffering. We have war, we have people who hurt others, and there are countries that suffer with hunger, with disease. If one can take away war, famine and disease, we could supposedly have everything we want and need, maybe more, but things still wouldn't be perfect." Stephanie kept her gaze on Dr. Erskine's face, hoping she's articulating herself well enough, "People will still argue, people will still get angry or depressed. It's a right as humans, even if the biggest problem of humans is hurting others. Many people just do that to feel better about who they are." It was textbook bully, something inherent in world leaders who threaten bombs to feel superior, or decimate their own people in order to cast off the 'unwanteds'.

"Should they not fight off those who want to hurt others?"

"They should stop their villains, the creatures that normal humans can't fight. Like Superman's Doomsday or Batman's Joker. They are the threats heroes are needed for, but for the war between countries, world leaders… People will argue, they can argue and be right, different, and still argue. You can get people to stop fighting, to stop hating, but you can't make people stop arguing. Forcing people to stop arguing, trying to force them to be content and happy like _you_ want them too. You force people to think the same way as you; it doesn't make the world better. It makes it **worse**."

"People's mistakes are from their perception of events, no? If we take away choice, they won't make horrible decisions, mistakes and the world would be better off?"

"If people cannot make mistakes, cannot get angry and sad, then they will never learn. They will never solve problems, never attempt to trying understanding each other better and figure out ways to make the world better, not just for them, but everyone. You force acceptance and it will never be acceptance. It's just another lie." Stephanie took a gulp of breath, hadn't realized she had stood, wondered why she could feel tears building up and sat back down. Face flushed, felt the color of passion coating over her being and warming her to an almost uncomfortable degree.

"So you would argue that man's 'freedom' of choice is what will make or break them?"

Stephanie gave herself a pause to get herself under control. Dr. Erskine did not seem as put upon about the subject and Stephanie hadn't known she felt this deeply about this topic, hadn't thought someone like Superman or Wonder Woman, or any hero, could be moved to take choices away when they always preached choice. It was startling, eye-opening.

"It is always a point of civilization to grow, to mature and evolve. Society is not perfect, but we are not hopeless. Years ago, gay marriage was looked down upon, something to be hidden. It isn't now, though there are always assholes that have narrow views. Before the Civil War, the South held slavery as a part of life, war ended it. It did not end discrimination, but it was a step. Just as Martin Luther King's speech was a step, a choice to fight injustice and right narrow views. Slavery is still practiced around the world in other countries, but is being fought. War is ugly and it costs lives, but war has brought change too. Suffering is horrible, but it impacts people – makes them reach out to humanity and inspires change too. Without either we would be stagnant. Without choice, we would never come to these conclusions… and we would never evolve, mature and grow as a society, a world. When we stop striving for better, but let others 'fix' the problems, we do not grow – we die."

Stephanie feels like that is a truth she can trust and believe in. As a girl who grew up in Gotham, if you did not fight for better, for more, you would fall into the underbelly of Gotham and just cease. There are monsters people, normal people, can't fight. The Joker is a force all his own, he kills, destroys without compassion and with only a mind to amuse himself. The police can never seem to hold him and in a city like Gotham, with Joker, Penguin, Two-Face and the other psychos that darken the city, no one would survive. Batman, despite how much of a constipated asshole he is, is source of hope – even if he is not normally viewed as one. He is clearness in a city of smog. When his beacon lights up the night, it is light in darkness and that is hope for a Gothamite. Batman is a legend, but they know he is not an alien; he is not an immortal being with strength of ten or so men. He has no powers, and Stephanie knows this to be true, he is flesh and blood – he is human… And he is proof that mankind can always strive for more, to be better than the monsters that darken their door.

He is a symbol, as all heroes are. He fights what others cannot and that inspires. People know they can't fight monsters like Joker, but they can right wrongs by voting for the least corrupt politician, they can fight by looking for cleaner energy, they can fight by looking to their neighbor, seeing the things that make them similar and different – accepting that an appearance, a religion and a set of beliefs does not make a monster. It makes them human.

This is freedom of choice… and it is beautiful, terrible, but something humans can do without legends – without heroes. Take that away, what else is there? If you take away the fight… what else can they do, but slowly die?

"They take away our social consciousness, the ability to connect with fellow man, their suffering and what we can do to change it." Stephanie nods at his words, spoken with a hint of pride, but doesn't quite get why, but then she's not looking at him either. She feels foolish, childish for being carried away, having an outburst, for the thoughts a simple discussion spurs even as she feels vindicated. Her thoughts are her own and she doesn't regret them even while she feels like how she acted was less than ideal.

"You enjoy fighting?" The question is odd, but a more personal and direct maneuver of conversation. The topic change has her blinking and, unbidden, her eyes seek his – finds a strange, unfathomable light in them.

"I do." She responds and his face twists in a way that has her saying more, far more than she means too, "I like fighting bullies, showing them that they may pick on someone weaker, but that doesn't make them better. I like fighting my struggles, myself, because I _want_ to be more than what my parents were. I want to fight to make a better tomorrow." She wipes at wet cheeks, aware she is crying as the admission claws out of her, but her gaze remains steady on his, "I want to fight for a day a little girl doesn't have to wonder if she's enough for her parents. I want to fight so little boys don't have to become men before they should. I want to fight, because if I don't fight for these things, then how can I expect others to fight for similar?" She means it, every word and his face is now that smooth, serene look that shines wisdom and reads her, pulling her inside out and putting her back together to discern her secrets.

She finds words tumbling out before she can stop them.

"I didn't always fight for the right reasons, for fun and thrill – for a boy. I always said I wanted to prove myself, to be worth something, but I don't think I found myself worthy… I still don't know if I am." She feels naked, but warm –petrified and bold. Shocked that she allowed those eyes, those eyes she was right to be wary of, to see through her, to burrow past her defenses. Yet, she doesn't feel the same sense of panic she expects to feel and it alarms her.

Blue eyes are wide, staring into chocolate pools that shine again, that same unidentifiable sheen that she can't place. She hasn't been able to name since first meeting this man.

Dr. Erskine opens his mouth and Stephanie waits with bated breath.

That is when gunfire and screams shatter the moment. Stephanie knows she should be relieved and, yet, she feels bereft of something intangible.

* * *

Looks like the rebels were finished with talking, had been finished with these slow talks for weeks. After the screams and gunfire, explosions had ripped through the air, smaller, planned and deadly for any chances of fighting back. The weapons cage had been hit, creating the biggest explosion due to the amount of ammo that had been within, including her own caravan's weapons and the weapons of anyone else who had not been military. She had witnessed the destruction herself, recalling every bit of knowledge she had in ordinance, spied materials used to make homemade bombs easily enough.

Unease flickered, recalling the guards teaching her some of these things. She could not dwell on it though, moving through tight spaces.

She wants to find Jake, but knows that it shall be hard between the smoke and kicked up dust. She can hear cries of wounded, hear signs of battle taking place. She wants to act, but is forced to confront the idea that she has not the means to do so at current. She has no weapon on her, wants to change that in the near future. She had left Dr. Erskine with Leslie and Amahle, heading for a designated safe zone that was far more fortified by soldiers surrounding it and made of studier material than that of the tents that surrounded the metal building. She remembers seeing it once, but refuses to go with them.

Instead, she dodges past men and women, ignores the scent of copper – blood - in the air; tries not to look at the dead who litter the ground as she moves closer and closer towards the towers. She sticks as low to the ground as she can, covering her mouth with the cloth of her shirt in order to limit the smoke she breaths in. Gunfire rings out and she almost freezes, but forces herself to move.

It was close. She glances left and right, staying away from firelight as much as possible and blends into whatever shadows the smoke allows her to hide in. She tries to stick to paths that are crowded, but already, the closer she gets to the fighting, the bodies are thinning out or is dead upon the ground. She hopes she comes across as a civilian who is panicking, but knows that won't be enough to save her life. Who she is will not matter for those whom have already killed men and women, those whose bodies she tries to not step up – is leaping over.

She can hear a soldier, speaking French, calling for all civilians to vacate the area, gives a vague direction of safety. She can hear something go off, sounds like a machine gun and can see, barely, the flickers of sparks as the bullets leave the chamber. Another explosion rips through the atmosphere, she is far enough away to not feel immediate effects of the blast, but can feel the ground quake beneath her feet in the explosions aftermath.

Stephanie knows that she needs to get to a higher point in order to better understand where the enemy forces might be originating from, a vantage point that would give her a better understanding of the damage already wreaked upon. She knows that the smoke is rising, knows that if she doesn't choose the right tower she will suffocate from the thickness of the toxic cloud.

Stephanie takes a moment, a short quick breath, knows that deeper will do her no good while surrounded by fire and smoke. She knows that deep breaths can give her away when she can see the outline of figures out of her peripheral. She doesn't call because there is a greater chance that, with the chaos of the battle, someone is more likely to shoot first when startled before seeing if the caller is friend or foe.

She's not even sure if the figures are enemy or not herself, so it's not worth taking that chance.

The blonde, living-dead girl waits a moment to watch which way the smoke sways towards, sees if the wind is a deciding factor and nearly sighs in relief. It does. So she makes her way west, opposite of where the wind is blowing direction, to one of the towers that will give her the view she seeks and be clear enough to not blind her or kill her with affixation.

She moves quickly, focuses on her surroundings – avoiding gunfire where she can. Someone collides with her.

She has a moment to catch a knife before it sinks into her gut. Applies pressure on a wrist, hears a grunt of pain. She pulls shoulders, thin yet tight, forward and sinks her knee into his gut. The figure is taller by a foot, dark skin and long, dark hair and eyes that are blown. She doesn't know if it's the fighting that did it or if he's drugged up, but she knows she isn't going to ask. The man is clumsy though, likely not expecting her to be a skilled fighter when she lands a solid kick to the side of his head. She watches as he turns, body twisting with the motion and goes tumbling down.

She waits only a moment before she is finding something to tie him up. She puts those knot lessons to use when she ties strips around his feet and connects them to his wrists, tight to make it so he likely can't feel either his legs or arms when he wakes up. The fabric of the canvas tent is sturdy, not so easy to break. A glance around says they're unnoticed, or at least she is.

Good.

The rest of the way to the tower is uneventful, so she climbs. Ignores the strain of her lungs, the way her eyes sting from both her tears and the smoke, she swings and lifts till she is above the station, glad to see no one there, when she swings onto the roof.

She freezes, but lets out a relieved sigh. Jake is there, eyes on her with a gun in his hand, but he relaxes and Stephanie notes, absently, that he has a duffle bag by his side – the nose of a gun sticking out. She's pulling down her shirt, swallowing cleaner air as if that will cure her of the burning, smoky taste on her tongue. She feels a desire to engulf buckets full of water; her mouth is dry, nearly painful. She should have expected it, but she hadn't been conscious of the pressing need.

Jake holds out a canteen and she takes it, forces herself to sip instead of swigging the contents. She hands it back, somewhat reluctant, but the way he grins shows he's got no hard feelings, but a possible thirst for a fight instead.

Without a word, he hands her a gun, a combat shotgun. He is also giving her three knives to hide on her person and a small handful of bombs, small ones that are pin-point deadly; not nearly destructive as the homemade ones the rebels used. There are others, smoke bombs and flash grenades.

"Where did you get this?" She has the presence of mind to ask, even as she double checks her chamber. Jake has a sniper rifle, seems better equipped in using it. She feels a sinking sensation that there was no way of getting out of this situation without taking a few lives, but she's not going to question Jake since they can see convoys coming out of the swamps, riding up to the fallen barrier that looks as if they blasted through it, just below them.

Stephanie breathes, knowing she can only control her actions here, knows she's going to have to kill or she's the dead one. Doesn't want to test her luck that she might come back a second time. Imagines that will be harder if she has a hole in the middle of her face.

 _Never again – but only if I can help it._ Stephanie sighs internally as the realization hits her.

She promised she wouldn't take a life, felt horrible the last time and knows she's still feeling it even if it was months ago. But, blue eyes are staring down into what looks like hell, with fire and smoke. Dead bodies and cries of triumph when another joins the climbing numbers, sees that she's going to have to possibly kill men and women, is going to have to take lives to save others.

"This isn't the same as that guy." Jake's voice is rough, but oddly comforting. He sounds as if he wanted to scold her, but hadn't quite managed it, "That guy was an accident, I know you hated what happened, but sometimes, when its stakes like these, you gotta make that call. These guys don't care who they're killing, they're making statements."

And it's true, she sees that. She doesn't want to kill, hates the option. But she knows Batman is of the mind that you avoid killing unless it's a life or death situation and pushes the thought away. She's not B-man; she's not here seeking his approval. She's not doing this, questioning herself, just because she wonders if this is a step towards becoming her father.

She's Stephanie Brown, she's looking at carnage and destruction – is seeing people being slaughtered because two sides are fighting, both have a perspective, a goal they found worth killing for. She is reminded of Dr. Erskine's thoughts, how heroes like Superman, Wonder Woman and Batman could stop this, but she doesn't feel as if her opinion changed. Heroes like them are needed for the monsters, not for this.

When she cocks her gun, she reminds herself that right now, she's not a hero either. She's Stephanie Brown, not a vigilante, but a teenager caught in a battle zone. She doesn't want to kill, but she will if she has too. Has no other choice but to do so.

She feels queasy, but knows that Jake is right and her grip on her gun is sure.

"You going to be okay?" Jake questions, turned away.

Yeah, she thinks instead of answering, yeah she'll be okay.

* * *

They have laid out a plan. Jake is going to shoot from the tower's perch for as long as he can before they get an idea of a sniper in the midst. From the vantage point of the tower, there is a bird's eye view to take out some of the fighters who are already pushing further into the camp.

He will be covering her while she heads towards the majority of the rebel forces, taking out their convoys and thus their firepower. They have jeeps with giant miniguns attached to the back, using those to take out any oncoming forces. But Stephanie doesn't plan on making an obvious advance.

There are no trees or water to hide in, to use for cover. The sky is blackened from smoke, blocking out the sun – they are her only sources of cover. Her flesh is heated from her heightened adrenaline and the fires that surround her. The ground feels unstable beneath her, rumbling in a threat to make her lose her balance – her signal that they've let off more bombs. But the feeling is faint, which means the explosion is further from her location or not a large one. The ground is soaked in blood, she can see bodies, some shredded from a blast, some filled with bullet holes and others are burnt beyond recognition.

She does not stay in one place for long, not unless she is hiding from oncoming footsteps. She doesn't want to chance it being the enemy, most likely is as she moves in the direction of the majority of their forces. She holds her gun close, hears more gunfire going off and shouting, angry; some desperate.

She reaches into the small satchel, the one holding bullets and bombs, wrapped around her torso. She can hear screaming getting closer, hears a loud bang and it is close enough that her ears are ringing.

She staggers to the side, catching a barrel of a gun to the side of her head. Wonders how she missed them when another hit gets her on the side of the face. She rights herself and propels her own gun up in an arch, catches something. She moves out of the way when they let off a shot, it misses by inches, but feels it in her eardrums, the momentary deafness since they let the shot off close to her ear. She turns, slamming her gun into their chest, hard. It winds them, but she's gotta press the advantage before he calls out for help. But it ain't going do her any good if he still has his weapon.

Smoke is nearly blinding her. And Stephanie is glad for the mask that Jake gave her, allowing ventilation of air so she isn't nearly choking on the smog of smoke. She ducks under what would have been a glancing hit, comes up under his guard and catches his nose with a right hook. She can feel the gush of blood as cartilage breaks under her fist, barely hears it as she still suffers from him firing the gun too close. He opens his mouth and she hopes it is to make a strangled noise. She's working on loosening his grip on the gun, fights him for it. She kicks him between the legs, watches as he goes down and grip loosens as he reflectively wants to grab the injured part of his anatomy.

She has the gun, throws it into one of the fires and gets a grip around his neck. He doesn't react at first, but soon he is gripping her arm, nearly bruising at first. But between the smoke, his own lack of face protective wear and her choking him, he is out quick. She waits a beat before letting loose, feels for a pulse and is glad enough to find one, though faint. Quickly, she ties him up with some spare handcuffs Jake had thoughtfully provided her, it is one of two pairs that she has.

Raising her head, she wonders if Jake is still shooting, if he's decimated a number of her quarries already, but doesn't know and can't hazard the ability to guess. She wonders, worryingly, if the fires have gotten out of control, if she's doing all of this for nothing. If they're all just going to die in a fire that will consume the area and some of the nearby swamps.

 _Not the fucking time, Steph._

She ignores the way her body quivers and presses on. She is extra careful, not wanting a repeat of the enemy to find her, to just put a bullet through her before she has any time to react. Especially since her eardrums were affected. So, she takes extra time to try and look, even as her hearing begins to settle and the ringing in her ears dies.

She cannot mess up.

So far, she has been able to use nonlethal methods of incapacitating the enemy. She feels proud of that, even as she knows that it might not last at all, likely will not with the plan they've put together in order to force the rebel forces to retreat.

Stephanie is trying not to think about it, is rounding a tent when she sees something that has her heart squeezing painfully. The rebel forces didn't manage to get the enemy leaders, but they got the UN officers. Fleetingly, she wonders if they got Leslie and Amahle, but sees only the diplomats, the celebrities, the scientists – whoever was in the UN to help negotiate peace talks - and Dr. Erskine. They have their hands tied behind their back, kneeling on the ground and heads bowed.

It was almost as scary a sight as that little boy with eyes screaming that he was going to die.

There are men yelling, arguing, and gesturing to the group of kneeled envoys. It sounds twisted, but she's not close enough to hear the words. She waits and watches, gun already up and aimed, but she knows the shotgun is not a distance gun. It is more effective when she is closer than the long distance she is, unable to hear words – but firing now would do her no good besides getting her killed.

Stephanie fights momentary panic, watching as one of the guys, who had been arguing; raise a gun in the direction of their hostages. But no sooner had he done so than he is down, bullet to the side of the head. There is a scramble for the enemy to get down, looking for shooters. Stephanie backtracks, forcing herself to take a detour, to go around now that she knows Jake is still safe, still covering her. She swallows her cry of relief and stays low, knowing that the enemy is focused on their unidentified shooter - Jake.

There is only one guy guarding the hostages, the rest of the forces being used to suppress the rest of the camp. She makes a point to catch the hostages' gazes – as well as one can with a full mask on at any rate. Motions for them to be silent as she creeps up behind their designated guard, closing a hand over his mouth and pulls back. She has surprise on her side as she pulls him out of sight and onto the ground. He is a thin man, frail beneath the baggy, dirty clothes that cover his frame. She pushes a point in his neck, not as blinded by smoke or the immediate need to get his gun away from him. He dropped it when she grabbed him.

He is out and she uses her second pair of cuffs to tie him to a pike, the same one they have the UN visitors tied against, she is just now seeing with her new vantage point. The forces are still focused on finding Jake; more of their numbers are decimated and not at all worried about the lives of their hostages.

Quickly, she sets to work, tells them to get away and to safety, though she doesn't know where that is right now. Tells them to stay low, to find cover. She has no way of taking them to wherever safety is, knows that the time would be wasted. The celebrities follow the urging of the diplomats, who know to stay low and crawl instead of getting up and straight up run. The scientists are leading, talk of other safe houses set into place. Dr. Erskine, however, does not leave and looks at her. Has had his eye on her ever since she appeared, taking out the guard and untying him and his fellow UN members. She is almost reluctant to raise her head and meet his gaze, but she does.

His eyes are shining with that unreadable, indiscernible sheen again and she wants to just demand what the hell the look is about when she feels, more than sees a bomb being thrown – it is a flash grenade. She grabs the older man and ducks behind one of the jeeps. There is a series of cries following the bang and flashing, bright, blinding light. She waits a moment, until the whiteness dulls, before poking her head out to see that reinforcements have arrived, but too few and stuck in a shootout with the rebel forces. Everyone, both sides, taking cover behind some structure. Her ears are ringing from the grenade, a glance over reveals that Dr. Erskine is holding his hands to his ears, affected just as much by the keening whine of that particular blast of blinding light and deafening sound.

She grabs his shoulder, getting his attention but she knows she startled him by the way he jerked. She pushes her mask up enough to reveal her lower face. She settles her other hand on the opposite shoulder, hoping he can read her lips if he can't hear her. The sounds of rounds being unloaded is making its way through the faded ringing, just as loud and hard to pierce through with any other sound, "Go find cover!" She yells, doesn't worry since she can barely hear herself.

"What about you?" She had been ready to just leave him and hope he heard her, but she had heard that roar, followed with his tug on her arm. She turns, perplexed, but sees concern, those eyes that look far too knowing.

"Gotta snip this in the butt if I can." She whispers this, but she doesn't try and speak louder as she tears her arm from his hold, makes her way beyond the forces. She finds their vehicles, throwing in bombs, flash grenades into jeeps. She bombards the tires of convoys. She doesn't know if anyone is injured, but knows that the vehicles will be wrecked. Fire is spreading and the scent of gas hits her nostrils.

Looks like the plan worked. With all the fire, the fighting and with her placement of bombs they had an idea to set off a slightly bigger explosion, to hit the enemy harder than they had hit the camp. She knows the tactic is dangerous, knows she could and can be caught in the blast herself. But without knowing their own forces numbers, without knowing the full extent of the rebels' forces, they had little choice when it was just the two of them. Outmatched. Out gunned.

Stephanie hopes, dearly, that Dr. Erskine had run when she told him. She is running, zig-zagging as a call rings out and the forces are retreating. A blast rocks from behind her, burning hot and searing into her back. It is merely the first part of the fireworks, so she keeps running, keepings going as the earth shakes beneath her feet. Smells burning flesh, hears cries of agony and another call ringing out with a siren's blare.

She bites down on a cry of pain as something lodges into her side, followed by something in her shoulder. Feels flesh sizzling, but ignores it as she runs. She has to keep running, she knows this. She doesn't know where the enemy is, doesn't know if allied forces have gotten away.

Dimly, she wonders if she killed everyone. Tears are trailing down her cheeks, getting caught in the mask, but she doesn't stop running. Her legs are burning, aching, her lungs are stinging and she coughs, nearly stumbles, but manages to keep herself upright. Another blast, larger, rips through the air and she has to swerve right as something large, burning lands just before her. Her chest is heaving with needed air, the ventilation not enough to get her what she needs. But she runs, runs – keeps on going until she feels as if she is in hell, escaping the wrath of damnation itself. Smoke furls and the flames reach for her, shadows mess with her eyes and she screams as something scrapes her side.

She only stops when someone is in her path. It is not the arms of Amahle, Leslie or Jake. But she has a brief flash of warm brown eyes. A brief thought of, _'This is how I die – for real this time,'_ when her legs buckle beneath her. She hears Leslie now, voice frantic, but dim. Amahle's hands are on her cheeks, the calloused edges smoothing over wet tracks. Stephanie just feels like she is falling, her vision is tunneling, narrowing onto only brown, brown eyes of the older man who is holding her.

"Why do you look at me like that?" She mutters out loud, unaware she is whispering in a hoarse voice that begs for water. Her grip is weak on forearms that are thin, but firm… And she knows nothing more.

* * *

She dreams of death, of fire and brimstone, of cries of agony and anguish. She is surrounded by flames, fluttering and beautiful, but deadly and painful. The sky is nothing but clouded darkness, lighting booming through the air and hitting the ground, cracking the abused earth beneath her feet. She watches it, almost as if she a mere spectator, but feels dread welling in her gut as the cracks grow and extend into claws reaching for her.

She steps away, but they continue to reach and grow in a bid to catch her and pull her under, to swallow her up and smother her beneath.

Faces begin appearing in the cracks, faces of the dead, people she noted, but never paid attention too. They are twisted, broken and demonic with eyes of death – like her own – staring back at her, snarling with rage, begging and pleading, "Why didn't you save us? Why did you kill us?" She doesn't answer, because she doesn't know if she did or didn't kill them. Can't find her voice and when she does open her mouth smoke bellows from between her lips, leaving a chalky, charcoal taste in her mouth. Instead of her answer, a keening blare of a siren sounds, disturbing in this setting and wrenching sobs that can't escape her body. Only the smoke and the siren sounds do.

A hand reaches out from the cracks and grabs her leg, nails digging into her knee and she freezes, seeing a little girl she treated, the one who had held onto her grandfather. Her other hand is attached to a blackened skeletal arm and she feels like she will throw up; knowing that the arm belonged to the sweet elderly man, the only family the girl had left.

"You bring nothing but destruction wherever you go." Stephanie flinches from both the words and the voice. The voice wasn't that of the little girl, whose dark eyes are bleeding into blue, dark flesh into tanned peach and hair into blonde curls. The voice was her own, and in place of the little patient girl is a little girl Stephanie, bruise on her jaw in the shape of finger prints, "You're a killer."

She is shocked, body flailing backwards as if the words were a physical blow and curses herself, "No." She croaks, smoke accompanying the words, "No, I'm not." The little girl her is unmoved by the claim, but Stephanie reaches forward and grips the girl, herself, by the shoulders, "We're not him." She breathes, ignoring the fire that mingles with her smoky breath, "We killed to save lives, but that doesn't make us killers."

"Because we don't want to be him?"

"We're not him." Stephanie bites back, feeling surer of the answer than the way her voice shakes.

' _No, we're not. Remember that.'_

* * *

When Stephanie comes awake, there are tubes attached to her nose, giving her oxygen. She is under crisp white sheets and one of her legs is bandaged and elevated on a pillow. She feels a burning in her throat, raw and painful. She swipes her tongue over the roof of her mouth, in the hopes to alleviate the feeling of cotton there, she thinks she tastes blood. When she lifts her hands she sees patches of ash across her skin, wonders if she is not covered head to toe in soot.

But she is momentarily dumbfounded when a hand is gripping her own. Blinks at the extra appendage as if she is seeing something bizarre and irregular. She takes a moment, breathes, before following the length of the arm to a familiar face and warm eyes shining, still shining that damnable emotion as he stares down at her.

Breath stuck in her throat, Stephanie doesn't ask him why he looks at her like that. She realizes she recognizes what shines in his gaze, feels her chest flutter and her nose burn with emotion as she stares back.

Hope. She is staring into eyes full of hope

* * *

 **AN:** I apologize for how long this took. I had finals, then holidays and then I was back in school trying to figure out how this semester would go. I've had this chapter written up for a long time, even before posting chapter 2. I must warn you that the next chapter might be just as long in coming.


	5. Goodbye Isn't Always 'Goodbye'

Disclaimer: Again, I borrowed an element from Marvel. Dr. Erskine, but he is AU and his story is gonna be AU here as well. So, warning, don't get triggered.

Also, I am kind of using Captain America's story from the first movie in this. All rights and credits to that go to:

Director: Joe Johnston

Writers: Christopher Markus, Stephen McFeely, Joe Simon and Jack Kirby.

Production Companies: Paramount Pictures, Marvel Entertainment and Marvel Studios.

I think I covered my basis on that one.

Also, I am taking a lot of leeway with Stephanie and Arthur Brown interactions. We do know there were hints of abuse, but how much, we don't really know. So, again, making up a bit of things I felt seemed like Arthur Brown.

* * *

Stephanie didn't go to a hospital, choosing to stay at the UN base to recover while others – civilians – were teleported to nearby hospitals that were willing to take in who they could, those in far more need than she. Doctors and other medical professions were sent in by various governments in a bid to aid those who were injured. The South Sudan government called for local doctors, nurses and people to do their part – though they were already far too few before. Other countries offered up what aid they could, those whom had good relations with the country, sending their own relief. The UN got more involved, more hands on in the aftermath of such an attack.

Facts slowly trickled in on how the attack began, originated and who played parts in the catastrophic event that would have killed billions – a full on investigation going underway by both local and foreign government forces. The swamps that surround the single plateau, a land designated to immunity, had played host to rebel forces, surrounding the area. They had managed to squeeze around from all sides besides a rocky formation that ended up housing a bunker that the SS government had built in case such an invasion of this magnitude happened. Whoever supplied the convoys, the jeeps or weapons was still an unknown factor, but they knew representatives of the rebels were the inside informants along with a handful of "civilians" whom had more capability to wander around with so many bodies to cover their movements.

No one knew Stephanie or Jake's part in sniping or blowing up a majority of the enemy vehicles. Stephanie's mask had protected much of her identity and the fact she had been covered head to toe in black, from the smoke, had further camaflouged her identity from the UN reps she saved. Only Dr. Erskine knew and Stephanie had yet to ask him how. She had asked how they found her, how they found Jake and what had been happening since her passing out. Jake had been fine, his position at the tower hadn't been found and when he saw the explosions, he booked it himself, heading for the designated safe zone that they now knew as the bunker. Leslie had hidden there and Amahle had been missing from action until appearing when Stephanie made it through smoke and fire, reaching the zone herself without knowing she had crossed such distances. She had been panicked, lost in confusion and calamity, filled with a will to live. So no, she hadn't known anything beyond the world that was right in front of her, even if she had only been able to see two feet or less, depending on the smoke and fire.

Stephanie and Jake's plan had killed hundreds of rebels, civilian casualties adding to the number, but had saved thousands in the long run. It was the best they could have hoped for; better than what Stephanie had believed was possible even if guilt lingered, somewhat less for the rebels, but for those who weren't the enemy, for those who had merely been behind the fences – fatalities of war. She didn't know if she was an absolute sap for mourning those deaths, even if she didn't know their names. But Leslie held her tighter, hugged her longer and cried with her when their nightmares woke them in the late night to early hours of morning. Amahle stayed entire days, looking forlorn at the devastation, helping with the cleanup and looking far older than Stephanie had ever seen her. Jake mourns, Stephanie decides, but he hides it under a grumpy ass attitude. He's – she struggles to find the word - apathetic to this sort of thing and she doesn't question it, doesn't shame him for it. He doesn't shame her for how much she feels.

So she guessed it wasn't such a bad thing, this feeling a loss of life. But she accepts it too, because it could have been so, so much worse.

Dr. Erskine throws himself into duties as well. Stephanie thought the amount of patients they had to work with before had been never ending, but now, it was _grueling_. Leslie does too, both of them and any abled bodied doctor or medic knows very little to no rest. Yet, when Stephanie wakes up, later in the evening or afternoon, Dr. Erskine is using up his break, what free time he has, by sitting by her bedside. Sometimes they don't talk, he just reads one of his books and she stares. He lets her. Sometimes, he talks, mostly about debates of human nature, of social structures, of false consciousness – how the wealthy rule and the rest play to the tune of those in power. He explains the good and bad of both sides of an argument, ranging from historic research to sociological analysis.

He leaves eventually and it is only hours later Leslie stumbles in, tired and worn. Stephanie doesn't bug the old lady, kisses her cheek when she leans down – pausing her own studies – and watches as the doctor either falls into bed, or changes; then falls into bed. Amahle will crawl in later, kneeling by Stephanie's bedside, she doesn't tell stories at first, but peers with the glow of her eyes in the shades of descending twilight. Stephanie thinks she should feel unnerved to have such unwavering attention for the hours that Amahle sits there, waiting for Stephanie to sleep, but instead she feels comfort. Jake's visits are few and far, for he is being pulled into action, filling up the gaps in defenses alongside seasoned soldiers who seem far less deadly than she has come to appreciate that Jake is. It is a routine as Stephanie slowly mends from what injuries she has.

Routines, eventually, find a conclusion Stephanie learns, pushing through exercises to regain mobility. Notes the gradual changes of grief leaving those she considers hers'. Feels she can note the mending shifts in features and movements with what time she has in the aftermath. She is no stranger to war. No stranger to being the victim, the instigator and the hero. Each role has their toll, but each has always provided perspective.

And it all seems to fall into one piece of the lessons she undertakes on this journey.

* * *

It is during the middle of week two, when Stephanie can sit up in bed without pain tearing through her side and during a visit from Dr. Erskine, does Stephanie ask him one question. Not the most important and pressing one she has simmered on, but one she wants to know the answer nevertheless. He is debating, with himself, about a topic she hasn't really been listening too, but she thinks she caught something about the American and Japanese war in the 1940's. She cuts him off. Partly to just ask the question and partly because she doesn't need her mind blown with some shit that goes beyond what they teach in public school.

Either way, win-win.

"How did you know it was me?" Her voice rings loudly and he looks nearly startled at her interruption if not about to scold her like a parent to a child that has forgotten their manners. It is disconcerting, but charms her too. She doesn't think she was ever scolded, aside from Leslie now – and now that thought nearly stumbles her, but she brushes it away. She has been yelled at, berated or even ordered with some hints of verbal abuse, but not scolded. If someone did it was her mother once upon a time, when Stephanie was little, a normal thing she has no real remembrance of. But he says nothing, his bushy brows lowering, making him look quite intense as his tanned forehead crinkles and the sides of his mouth are downturned as he mutters something she can't hear. He was standing, having been pacing along the tarp covered ground, arms slowly falling to his sides before he shifts to crossing them over his chest and hides his mouth behind a hand. Stephanie resists the knee-jerk reaction to mention that, with the long bits of hair on his balding head sticking out all crazy, add a doctor coat and he would look like a mad scientist or a cousin to Einstein.

The blonde frowns and considers – with what little she knows of him – that he might have been related to the man. She wouldn't put it past him.

Russet hues, flecked with gold that nearly make his eyes a milk-chocolate in the right light, are boring onto her – not at, because she's hyper aware and that word doesn't feel like it fits when it is like he sees all of her. She's still on the fence about that, by the way. With precise movements that look fluid and practiced, he sits in the chair he sometimes occupies when reading, just a foot away from her bed. The metal of the seat dings, because it has a weak part in it that dents whenever someone decides to use it. It just moves back in the same place with a similar ding when someone stands.

Yes, she's distracting herself with recalling useless information, what of it?

Stephanie doesn't say anything even as pressure builds in her chest to _say_ something that might pressure him into speaking faster, or moving along with one of the questions she has stalled long enough in asking. She is impatient, she knows, a trait that can pop up at the worst of times, but she breathes through her nose, counting backwards from ten and repeats this three times before the older man shifts with the removal of the hand over his mouth.

"Why did you do what you did?" She does not hide the growl of annoyance, or how the same emotion causes her face to pinch that he asked her a question while not answering her own. Her hands grip her sheets, but she lets them go because that is a tell that is over the top. She blows out a breath, bangs-that-have-grown-too-long fly out before falling back into place, causing her to reach up and swipe the strands back and behind her ear with quick, agitated movements. Still, he stares at her with utter contemplation, just watching her and with her growing feelings of frustration, that penetrating look scratches her senses. Flush creeps up her chest and along her face, she can feel the heat and wonders, briefly, why she is getting so worked up over it? Yes, it's annoying, but it wasn't something he hadn't done before when they get into debates, but this time it rankles and she has the distinct feeling it goes beyond just his question.

Flashes of Batman throwing her questions back at her, in that jerk-way he has. Flashes of Tim disregarding some of her questions, asking her back: why does she think? Cass didn't quite do that, but to be fair, Cass's vocabulary isn't stellar. Dinah was better, but Oracle could be just as jerk-ish as Batman. Huntress was nicer too, yet they all had that quality of misdirecting her question with one of her own.

"Because." She bites out, feeling childish; yet justified all in one as she completes the look with stubbornly lifting her chin and crossing her arms over her chest. She is hoping to whatever being or gods of things of righteousness that she doesn't look like a pouting child. She feels like one just a tiny bit.

" _Daddy, why were you in jail?"_

" _Why are you a dumb child? Perhaps if you were more than passably intelligent I wouldn't have ended up in jail. Don't question your father."_

Her memory is fuzzy if that was an actual conversation, but it could be a combination of memories of similar, many, moments that translate to that.

She bites the inside of her cheek, hard, and is rewarded with the copper taste of blood. The memory is stark and reminds her of many other situations when a girl asked her father questions, returning them with his own questions in order to stump a little girl, deflecting because he didn't want to deal with them, _with her_. 'Will the memory of him paint a large portion of her life?' She asks herself with an inner bitterness that is slowly bleeding into her countenance, but right now she's not paying attention to Dr. Erskine or how he stares at her, watching her and still waits.

She knows the question is pointless; the answer is a resounding yes. She has a long, long way to go before she can undo the damage done – if it can be entirely undone. She knows that while she has acknowledged the facts of this it does not mean that everything is better. Realization does not mean everything is healed, all better and the situation is entirely resolved, but the first part of recovery.

God that will be a bitch of a recovery.

"I hit a soft spot." Stephanie doesn't confirm or deny the inquiry, but sighs dramatically. It wasn't a question anyway.

"I wanted to stop my dad. He was a criminal, always loved his crime sprees more than trying to go the straight and narrow for his kid." It's not the full truth, but as much as the truth she was willing to give. She had started this tale already, just before the attack, kind of, "I was angry, furious and I tried to help the police get him at first, but they seemed to not understand the clues I was leaving them. So I set out to stop him on my own."

"You became a vigilante." Again, the blonde teenager did not confirm or deny the good doctor's prognosis. It was a statement, so no point answering it like it was one.

"I donned a cape and mask, ended up working with another dynamic duo briefly." She chuckled, somewhat self-depreciating, "I wanted to kill my dad, or I thought I did. I figured he had ruined my life, ruined my mother's life and if he was gone everything would be better." A pause stretches and she licks chapped, cracked lips, "But I was talked out of it… I'm glad I was."

"You didn't stop." Stephanie knows what he means when he says this.

"No," She answers, "I didn't stop wearing a cape or mask. I kept going out, stopping muggings, rapes or even thefts. I wasn't the best; I didn't try to take on anyone really big." She swipes her hair back, bangs having fallen in front of her face and focuses on Dr. Erskine, "Despite how much I loved the life and wanted to do more, I never took on what was beyond my limits." It was true. When Tim always expressed concern at her being a crime fighter – that the life wasn't for her – she never lied about who she was going after.

Two-Face, Joker, Penguin or any of B-rate villain and above (Arthur was excluded since he was merely a C-rated one) she never went after. She stuck to her neighborhood, taking out the small time crooks that Batman and his group might be a bit too busy for with all these other supervillain egos. Calling the police and leaving her subject tied up with evidence to support shit or at least a clue of where to find it. She knew she didn't have the skill, though she had tried to act it when she played Robin a bit – feeling the pressure of proving herself good enough for the role. Then… she attempted a dumb plan she hadn't fully thought through.

Heh, guess sometimes she might get in a bit over her head then.

"When you told me you enjoyed fighting… you said you wanted to stop bullies. Your father was one, you wanted to stop him." Figures he'd make that connection. Stephanie just gives him a look, but doesn't comment or respond. Dr. Erskine didn't seem like he needed verbal clarification as he nodded his head a few times in small, bobbing motions. Then he sits, one leg crossed over the other, "I'd like to tell you a story…"

Stephanie feels like a lump sack of wet noodles, but she nods in answer because she doesn't quite know what else to do. He isn't – she just basically told him she was a wanna-be-hero and now he wants to tell her a story?

Expectation was popped, because she was use to someone reacting with telling her the life was dangerous and she shouldn't do it.

Huh.

"A long, long time ago, during the second World War, my great-grandfather was made to do horrible experiments for the Nazis… When he was able to escape, he joined the United States government in creating a research team in order to make the perfect soldier." Well, that's got her attention and she blinks as she recalls Tim's research on Slade, "He searched through recruits, through men who 'looked' the part of an American hero. But my great-grandfather was not interested in looks; he was interested in the character of a man." Dr. Erskine's voice is soft and reflective as he pulls out a little, leather bound journal from his breast pocket, about the same size as his hand, but nearly two-inches thick.

"Who did he find?" Stephanie was curious; while she didn't know Slade she knew he was an enemy of Tim's. What info she had seemed to line up with a really, really old guy who was given some government super soldier stuff and became a mercenary that drove Tim nuts.

"A boy, a sickly boy from Brooklyn." Erskine's voice trickled as his thumb flickered through the edges of pages, "His name was Steve, a boy who had no one but his best friend. He had tried to enlist twelve times. Twelve." Erskine raised those eyes to meet Stephanie's own confused gaze, "He was denied each and every time, being scrawny boy, pale and very short. He could never make it past the medical examiners."

"So he never got further." Stephanie concluded, but Erskine shook his head.

"Great-grandfather, on the boy's thirteenth time, was there. He had every form the boy had written out, some with different names, different information so the boy could get in." Erskine chuckled, "He was soft-spoken and gentle. Great-grandfather asked him why he was trying so hard to end up in the army. Did he want to kill Nazis?"

Stephanie didn't hazard a guess this time, but waited.

"He said he didn't want to kill Nazis, 'I hate bullies,' was his answer." Dr. Erskine let out with a long breath, but his warm gaze was on Stephanie, "About the same answer you gave, when I asked you if you liked to fight." The blonde swallowed, "Great-grandfather approved him, sending him to boot camp. Where he strived harder and harder, despite what other people thought about him. There were many people who questioned great-grandfather's mental state in choosing this boy, some trying to have him pick others. Steve's physical appearance might have been weak on the offset, but he was leader with a good heart, who didn't mind putting themselves in danger to protect others. He proved that to everyone in the end."

"How did he prove that?" Stephanie asked because she generally wanted to know how someone who no one else saw potential finally proved themselves a hero.

"A grenade was released and he surrounded his body with it in order to shield others from the impact." And Stephanie's eyes widened, because – just fucking _wow_. _WOW_!

"So he di-"

"He lived," Erskine looked amused, "the grenade was a fake, but no one but my great-grandfather knew."

Oh, sneaky, sly bastard, "Oh." Because what else could one say to that?

"You remind me of Steve." Stephanie blanched, looking at him as if he had three extra heads and Erskine raised a brow in challenge at her look.

"You're crazy. No way I'd be that brave!" Stephanie snorted in disbelief, shaking her head. Those challenging brows became arched.

"May I remind you of the attack?" Puzzled, she shook her head more slowly, face twisted to show she had no idea what he was referring too. She nearly huffed when he seemed amused by her response, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue.

"I didn't do anything." She protested, conviction ringing through her, because she hadn't done anything even if she can acknowledge that she and Jake had saved many lives even if they had to take lives. It was no different from the soldiers who lost their lives trying to protect people, trying to force back the rebels. It was no more impressive, no more worthy of notice.

"It's that attitude that reminds me of him, of Steve, of the man who had earned my great-grandfather's respect." And that felt wrong to Stephanie, because she wasn't Steve. She had selfish reasons to fight. She always had crowed her achievements when she was working alongside Tim, Batman or the Birds of Prey, willing to proclaim her badass-ery for all who would listen, "It's not his humble and soft-spoken attitude I'm talking about," Erskine went on, as if reading her mind, "he was bashful and shy, unwilling to take credit for anything he did. I mean you remind me of him, because you don't seem to think of yourself as a hero. Perhaps you tried to be, wanted to be, but you didn't think of yourself as a hero."

Stephanie diverted her gaze.

Wasn't that the crux of it all? Hadn't she already figured out she had been trying to verify herself through others, attempting to become legit through approval of other superheroes?

"You dismiss what you did as something any other could and would do." Well, duh. Soldiers fought in common wars every day, they were heroes too. She couldn't say her actions when above and beyond what any of them were capable of, she just had the ability to do it. Jake had been just as daring as she, so she didn't see how she was equating to this fabled Steve who sounded like the wet dream ideal of America's hero. Here she was, just a teenager fighting from becoming another statistic with a druggie mom, a crime-figure of a dad and a teenage pregnancy to go with all her underage woes of issues of daddy, authority and need to feel wanted. She was the opposite of America's dream hero. If Superman wasn't an alien, he likely would have been the embodiment of Steve from what Dr. Erskine was telling her.

"Because there are soldiers who do that, always have. I didn't do anything that should outshine them. I wasn't attempting to change the world, just stopping innocents from dying." Stephanie refused to look at him because she could feel _THAT_ stare, the one filled with hope, the one that bore through her and created enough conflicting emotions she could likely compete with America's conflicting creeds.

Yet, despite herself, she couldn't help but ask, "What happened to Steve?" She hadn't heard about the guy in history books. Granted, she hadn't heard anything about super soldier serums or attempts at modifications on soldiers, but she knew about Slade enough to know that there was a number of information blotted out. Plus, she doubted it would be an open ended thing about how governments took loyal soldiers and helped create some of the monsters in the world.

But then, anyone had the ability to be a monster, didn't they? No government or serum forced people to take those actions, just the people and the choices they make themselves.

"He died." The answer startles her so, she forgets how she was attempting to avoid looking at the older man and is staring at him with outraged disbelief.

"You said-"

"I said he did not die from the grenade." Erskine points out and she presses her lips together mulishly, but contends herself to listen, "Great-grandfather, after boot camp, after preparing Steve, finally took the boy back to his lab. Surrounded by military officials, other scientist that had been working on the serum and ready to outfit Steve in anything he should require…" Here the doctor trailed off, eyes solemnly on the book. The spine had cracks, as if it was opened often with ends of pages bent from being thumbed through thoroughly. Dr. Erskine brushes his thumb over the cover with something that seems akin to reverence, "Steve was injected, but he did not make it through the transition."

The way he says it has her nerves pinching, almost feeling some phantom pain of an imagined serum gone-wrong through her system. Stephanie doesn't know what the transition would have meant for Steve, whom the doctor described as thin and sickly. Just what kind of transition would one receive with such a 'booster'? All at once, Stephanie felt horror in realizing that the serum would have made Steve a soldier, bringing out the best qualities of the man. That was something similar to Slade, right? Though Slade didn't need a physical change, Steve did – if he really wasn't much to look at, didn't have the physical capabilities they sought in a soldier beyond his own personality and intentions.

Her phantom scars from her torture session panged in empathy.

"It was painful, my great-grandfather describes in detail how Steve screamed. How it had all gone very, very wrong." Erskine's voice sounds far away, lost in an imagined memory detailed through a book. She's not sure if she should reach out and comfort him. He was too far away, physically, for her to even attempt patting his shoulder. Secondly, she was afraid to try using words because it felt odd to disrupt the man while he looked as if he was mourning a life, a person and memory – someone the rest of the world didn't know about.

Steve needed someone to remember him. So, Steph said nothing, but sat back and let the silence reign between them. Calm, solemn and peculiarly comfortable.

* * *

Later that night, after Leslie and Amahle sleeps and no visitors come, Stephanie reflects a bit more about a certain topic. The very topic she and Dr. Erskine were discussing before sounds of the attack reached them. He posed the question of people, Superman and Wonder Woman, changing the world in their image of a peaceful, safe world. She felt right and convinced of herself in the moment before the attack, before entering what seemed like a warzone.

She acted, knew she had the ability to do something… and she still feels the same as before. She acted to help people, not change the world and there is contradiction there, she can see that just as she can see differences. She had no intentions of changing the world, of forcing two conflicting governments to change their beliefs, of forcing them to put down guns or face a justice in her image.

She cannot control the fate of others, what they believe or how they feel. She can only control herself, her actions and reactions… and that is how it should be, she thinks. Azure hues staring at the fluttering tent flap, seeing other white and blue tents and the sparkling stars in the tiny gap left to her perception, hands folded over her stomach as she lets her thoughts follow a path. The world is large, with a sky that expands across, but with her lessons, she learns that not everyone sees the sky from her same view, from her same perspective.

And wasn't that part of the argument on ethics?

She is spending way too much time with Dr. Erskine now, but somehow she doesn't find she minds even as wariness settles around the thought. She accepts it, but doesn't think on it further. Instead, she thinks of Steve, of Erskine, Leslie, Jake, Amahle… and she thinks of people back home, ignoring the flickering of shadows out of the corner of her eye that mimic flames. She turns over on her side, staring at the side of the canvas wall of the tent to escape it…

Too bad, she can't escape her nightmares. _Soon_ , she coos to herself in the recesses of her mind. Black Mask never broke her, only haunted her nightmares and gave her an aversion to tools, but he did not break her. Hell will haunt her; the screams and the smell of burning flesh (she has yet to look at any cooked meat for a while) paint her dreams into garish nightmares. She is not okay, but she will be. Hell would not take her out either, she won't let it.

 _Can't_ let it.

* * *

A few days later, Jake announces he is leaving. Stephanie is not surprised, she wants to be. She wants to act like this was a spur of the moment thing, but knows that Jake has stayed longer than he intended. She knows she cannot ask for more time. Jake has given her plenty of his time, has pushed her to the limits that only Cass has managed to do. The blonde can feel the change within her form, knows of muscles she has only been aware of in ways that the Asian-assassin-girl-of-few-words only has brought out. She is no master, but she knows the exercises, knows she can take what Jake taught her, pile it on what B-man, Cass and the Birds of Prey have shown her. Just as she continues to learn and practice tracking, hunting, shooting – she must always practice, always train if she wants to be better.

 _She will be a beast_ , if she has anything to say about it. Stephanie knows she is not on Jake's level, or Cass's level, but she knows she has upped her game considerably since meeting him.

Jake's time with her is shorter in comparison to her time with Tim, Cass and others, but Jake has no less meaning to her. There is always a bond, Steph feels, that is created when someone takes you under their wing – for good or ill. Jake is not Tim, he is not Cass, he is Jake and she will never forget him.

Jake takes several days to get himself in gear and, sadly, she is not able to train with him in those final days, still in need of much recovery even if she was doing well considering everything else. But Jake does spend time with her. Unspoken, it seems like all the other adults seemed to get the memo, they are left alone a majority of his visits. He sits with her, conjuring some random board game. She doesn't ask, isn't sure she wants to know if he stole that from the soldier barracks. They wile away hours between cheating at chess and checkers. They roped in Leslie and Abraham for monopoly. Amahle just wanted to be the banker. Decided to be a corrupt one when she began pocketing some of the money for herself... And it took Leslie and Stephanie a good portion of the game to explain to Jake and Abraham that there was no weapons market or scientific development field that allowed them some random money spurts, which Amahle gave them with her crazy old lady cackle.

It was strange, oddly familial-like, but Stephanie doesn't think on it too much. If she starts analyzing moments like these she isn't sure what would happen.

Time is Steph's enemy. It is a constantly elusive device she has lost track of during her months in Africa, a deadly beautiful continent with its own magic and reality. She counted days from one village to the next, of the nights with Amahle and the days with Leslie. There was a series of flows that adjusted with time being taken up with different tasks and hobbies, but eventually even these moments would flow in a steady hum of streaming portions. Now, time is measured as a countdown to the parting of someone she felt oddly, in the short amount of time they spent, close too. Time is now a construct Stephanie only becomes blaringly aware of more so in the space of Jake's announcement and the days leading up to his departure. Steph is only able to count down months and days whenever she looks at a calendar, blissfully flowing in a blur of events that bring both familiar and new adventures. Yet, with Jake's departure looming, she measures moments from the time she wakes up, to when she sleeps. She senses the tick-tock in her pulse as she steals Jake's knight and swipes a pawn off the board. She ignores when he places another pawn on the board, thinking she isn't looking. Seconds pitter patter like rain as they converse about random teenage topics, yet steering clear of his inevitable leaving.

It is not so much that it is a taboo subject, but a matter on which she – and she thinks he – wish not to dwell on anymore. The topic, as it is, is already a subconscious, blaring, thought behind their activities, their words and the silence that stretches between in a comfortable; stagnant way. Yet silence cannot pause what will be, what time inescapably brings along with its passage. Time is unstoppable, super powers or not, it will eventually have its due.

Stephanie watches, feels a sudden strange sense as she sees Amahle and Leslie sitting on the floor, huddled close together and whispering with their heads bent towards the other. Their attention is focused on the other woman, eyes intent and fierce and as Stephanie watches she thinks how striking both women look. Leslie in a sweat stained white tank top, canvas cargo pants tucked into high-hiking boots of worn, dirt-covered leather. White hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, the silver at her temples long gone with the exposure to sun, making her hair a beautiful, brilliant white. Amahle's wild main of silver, darker toned flesh is in contrast, but only seems to play against Leslie's own coloring prettily. With the red of her dress swathing her slight frame, tucked close into her figure and somehow not hindering despite the close proximity of the two women, Amahle looks soft and cuddly to Leslie's own tougher appearance.

Stephanie does not try to hear what the two women are conspiring about; content to watch the two women talk with ease. Leslie's lips twitching with a desire to smile. Amahle just smiles with wicked delight in the face of it, spurring on that twitching lip until it will eventually give way. Their backs are to Leslie's cot, not quite leaning back against the flimsy foundation and seemingly oblivious to the rest of the group.

To be fair… Stephanie is pretending to be sleeping.

She doesn't know if she's become that good or if they're not fooled. If they're not and are simply indulging her whims, she'll take it.

On makeshift seats made of crates, just a few feet away from where she 'sleeps', Jake and Abraham are facing each other. Conversing in their own low and hushed tones with another crate between them, a board with chess pieces is set up. From what Stephanie is able to glean, neither are cheating and haven't gotten very far in the game as the men just talk. It surprises Stephanie, feeling an awkward sense of strangeness to see Jake speaking with Abraham with wit and facility. She hadn't known the two had talked enough to achieve such effortlessness, like there is some underlying bond between the two men as they conversed, discussing different places they've visited, the weirdest things they've seen. Commiserating with openness that Stephanie hadn't known Jake was capable of. She was close enough to hear snippets, enough to know that these two must have been talking more than she had ever realized.

… She is not Batman and does not feel like freaking out because she is not a control freak. Okay?!

She just feels oddly warm between the two scenes taking place and wonders, not for the first time, how did Abraham slip into their group without her notice? She can't find it in herself to complain as Amahle had slipped into her life in a subtle yet profound way. How Jake had just happened, bleeding into her life with nary a warning. Why should Abraham be any different?

Eventually, the drugs kick in and the low tones of some of her favorite people lull her into a pleasant dream.

* * *

It is the next morning that Jake leaves…

The sun is barely rising over peaks in the distance, streaking navy, indigo hues with smatterings of gray, tangling with pastel oranges and pinks. Sparkling stars are slowly bleeping out, as if never existing. The nights are often chilly in Africa, stark against the heat of the sunny days close to the equator and the morning has Stephanie – standing on her own two feet, with a crutch – clutching a letter.

The bastard never said goodbye.

But Jake, Stephanie notes absently as she eyes the letter without actually reading it (Has already read it several times and will read it a thousand times more), has never really been the type for goodbyes, she figures.

She awoke with a flap of a tent and a letter taped to her forehead (Thanks for that, Jake, ya ass). Amahle was nowhere to be found, but a letter for her was placed on the table besides Leslie's own letter. There was no letter for Abraham in sight, but Jake could have left a letter for the older man in his own tent. She isn't sure if he did or not, but she's going to hazard a guess that the older man did.

Stephanie didn't bother getting up and chasing after the whisper of a fading shadow. She didn't think there was a point when anything she could have said would have only sounded like a goodbye.

She didn't like goodbyes either.

She waited thirty minutes before standing, grabbing her crutches before deciding to make her way through the flaps. He was long gone and she was not incurring Leslie's wrath to chase after him, even if she was inclined to attempt a chase. Outside, she just waited in the pre-dawn breeze.

 _Hey, Blue-eyes_ (Fucking more original than Blondie),

 _I ain't there and if you freak out, I'm going to make fun of you forever._

 _Look, I had fun. Sure, some of the people you hang with are kind of old; never tell Leslie I said that. I. WILL. HURT. YOU. But, you were cool and I never expected to find someone who kind of got me, or you at least understood some of the fucked up shit we discussed._

 _You're cool, Blue-eyes. You got these issues that you never talk about, but I noticed. You fight like a hellcat and ain't afraid to be silly. It's refreshing. The people my mom gave me too… they ain't like you. And I thought you would annoy me at first, but I think…_

 _I think you were my first real friend._ (Okay, she did not cry here, don't judge) _So, get better, fight whatever demons ya got and keep kicking until I find you again._

 _Don't be too much trouble, okay?_

 _\- Jake_

Stephanie stands there, just clutching his letter and staring off into a distance with no shadow of his figure there. She is smiling, even if her eyes are red with the desire to cry. Jake didn't like goodbyes and never said it in his letter. He made a promise, about how he would find her again and she wants to snort and roll her eyes – that cynical part of her that is always going to be there despite everything. But, instead, she figures she'll hold him to it instead.

Trust is given to a precious few… and Jake isn't there yet, not by a long shot, but he could be.

* * *

Stephanie and Leslie's group is scheduled to leave by the end of week four after the attack. Dr. Erskine informs them that, due to the number of volunteers killed, he will be joining them. Apparently, several people were transferring in and out and Stephanie doesn't blame anyone who decides they want to return home _after everything_. Yes, they are all warned of dangers, of some of the upheavals they might face, but the reality is always scarier than a warning or some pamphlet. There is no way to describe what shit she's seen and had to face here and it's not fair to blame office folk who don't have a clue. She was in the thick of the shit and couldn't tell anyone beyond two words, _Hell_ and _nightmare._

Because of the number of volunteers whom had died in the attack, they were bringing in volunteers from within the continent and having other doctors flying in. Word spread of other groups cancelling their tours, but thankfully theirs was the one that would continue on. Stephanie was nowhere near ready to return home and, really, she didn't think Leslie was either.

Dr. Erskine was likely readily accepted, with his ability and knowledge of several languages, he would be an asset. Plus, he knew a good amount of their group already. Stephanie thinks he is also one of the few UN officers not scarred by events. Other UN members, such as those whom were held hostage, had quickly scattered after things had calmed down and replacements brought in to give 'victims' time to recover from the event.

She doesn't blame them. She was a hostage of Black Mask and she's here, not in Gotham, so she can't judge.

In the end, Leslie finished her time in the medical tents and Stephanie spent the rest finishing up recovery and physical therapy. Amahle stuck around to help with that, to keep Stephanie's mind from wandering during the day. Dr. Erskine has taken over helping in Leslie's tent full-time, as there were fewer aides now. The odd two million people of civilians have been relocated, likely to other, safer countries or across to other continents like Europe. Thus, by the end of the week, only a few tents remained with towers and fenced gates torn down and much of the military forces moved on.

Choppers came in to replenish replies lost with large donations given by benefactors not named. People who would become part of the group trickled in… and then by the end of the week, Stephanie said goodbye South Sudan.

* * *

It is only a few days later of nearly around the clock driving that she is saying hello to Central African Republic, a country that borders to the west of South Sudan. The time here is estimated to be shorter due to how behind they were because of the attack, though they will not be skipping stops – because the people who need them do not deserve to suffer over happenings outside of their control. C.A.R. was once colonized by France back when most of Europe split off the continent for their own power plays, but gained independence back in the 60s with the country recently having been swayed over to a multi-party democracy. However, a lot of the people who remained on with the group were skittish here; the country has been awash in violence with some of the latest acts of ethnic and religious cleansing of Muslims and much of the population being displaced. Those who stayed already knew of the history and development they were walking into and because of how the timeline was shortened many were okay with braving the muddy waters. A lot of the newer volunteers were certainly going to be tested if things were as bad as they were in S.S., which they hoped was not going to be the case. Because the people who still remained were in dire need, as one of the lowest level of human developed countries, healthcare was null and many died young here.

The road has given Stephanie no choice but to get use to Abraham travelling with them. Amahle has gone off into the ether or wherever she usually disappears to since before the attacks. Leslie finds a kindred spirit, another pacifist despite his family's work on the super soldier serums. Stephanie sleeps or pretends to sleep to stave off talking in general, mourning the loss of Jake and feeling apprehension at another adult, another _adult man_ , entering her life. She likes Abraham, she does. He looks at her in ways she had wished her da - Arthur, she reminds herself - he looks at her in ways she had wished Arthur had been able to see her. She had tricked herself into believing, time and again, that he had cared – he might have, she doesn't know – but he cared more about himself. Abraham looks at her in ways she had hoped Batman would have, with pride, with hope and other warm fuzzy things she thinks mentors and father-figures should feel toward a charge or daughter. She thinks she surprised Batman, might have garnered something other than passive indifference behind that mask, but she's not sure and… she's not sure she's okay with it yet, but she wants to be.

She wants to see past _him_ , past _Arthur_ , past the butler – _Alfred_ , past anyone who knew that Clue Master was her paternal parent. But a life time worth of _issues_ have a surmountable bit of evidence that whispers warnings, that has her smiling while trying to decide if the smile he gives back is genuine or another pretty ploy. Still, she tries to keep it minimal because Leslie is watching him too and it… Surprise isn't the right word. Cautious, puzzled or bewildered are the best words she can use. Leslie's smiles are practiced, ones Stephanie recognizes as the old lady using whenever she _**has**_ to deal with idiots she rather not, mostly reserved for those who come off as shady when entering the clinic. Leslie is on guard and when Abraham isn't looking directly at the doctor, she is staring him down, brows lowering and hazel-green eyes are glinting green with her hardened gaze.

Stephanie feels her hackles rising, thinking Leslie knows something about this new guy and every paranoid button she has about men, dangers and past experience is blaring inside the blonde's head. Leslie must have noticed, because it is during one pit stop for much needed potty breaks that Leslie confronts Stephanie.

" _I know about Arthur's abuse." Stephanie had been turned away, about to take a drink and she's glad she didn't because she would have choked or spit that water at Leslie. Leslie just stares back at Stephanie's wide-frightened-eyed stare. Stephanie wants to ask how the fuck does Leslie know? Stephanie never broadcasted that shit, but then she recalls her and Robin – Tim and sharing with him parts of herself she had never told others. She remembers telling him about her sexual assault, worried about what he'll say. But Tim, beautiful boy that she loves and she wants to believe she'll let him go - but can she? - has been unlike a lot of guys in her life. She loves him still and it's a punch in her gut she doesn't need when talking to Leslie. Tim hadn't reacted how Dean did, as if he was getting sloppy seconds, but he was upset, but at himself. He was upset at the male species for in general,_ _ **god damn it, her heart clenches remembering it**_ _. The memory brings tears to her eyes and her heart is fit to bursting._

 _Leslie misreads it._

" _I'm not saying this to corner you, Stephanie… I-I," Leslie is clumsy, but in the end she is holding Stephanie, hugging her and it should feel uncomfortable with this surrounding heat, but it isn't and Stephanie holds on right back._

" _Leslie, Leslie, it's-it-"_

" _It's not okay," Leslie pulls back and Stephanie is leaning into the hand cupping her cheek, "Crystal told me… after you died." And that surprises Stephanie, but she has no time to ask, not when she's got conflicting issues of Tim, this conversation and Arthur running in her head, "I should have seen the signs. I should have told Bruce-" Leslie's breath hitches and Stephanie's mind is whirling. None of that made sense to her._

" _I wasn't going to say it was okay." Stephanie mutters and it feels lame to her own ears, but she swore she wasn't going to say it was okay. She didn't know what she was going to say, she's feeling dizzy and it might be because Leslie is dropping bombs on her that feels like it'll be followed with a blitzkrieg attack._

" _Still," Leslie's voice is harsh and Stephanie wants to look around to see if they've attracted an audience, but she resists since she doesn't see anyone out of the corner of her eye and Leslie was not careless, "Then you died and I felt responsible, I am responsible and when you woke up I wanted to protect you, take you away and make it better. I knew. I knew and I wanted to punish him, wanted him to stop using kids," Leslie is nearly babbling and Stephanie feels suspicion rearing, but she doesn't pull away from Leslie. Leslie is clutching her now like she is a lifeline, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so fucking sorry." The blonde teen's jaw clenches and her nostrils flare, Leslie cussing is a warning sign, something is wrong, was wrong and her saying sorry is swimming in turbulent seas in Stephanie's own mind, but Leslie is still going._

 _Hiccup and a breath, "You deserved better, from all of us and I… I didn't mean to make you wary of Abraham." Leslie pulls back, hands on Stephanie's shoulders, "He seems kind and he… he likes you." Stephanie's stomach clenches, "He told Jake you were a hero and it makes me remember Batman right beside you, calling you Robin, but," Leslie swallows, "I'm not sure." And her stomach twists and it's everything Steph figured for herself, confirmation that Batman didn't see her as more, "I hated him using kids… and you're not a kid, you're a hero and he didn't see it."_

 _Shit, how many fucking gut punches was she going to take if Leslie is looking at her with pride, mixed with tears and guilt? Half of this conversation is out of Stephanie's league, beyond her and its – fuck – what is happening?_

" _I can't stop you from being one. I care about you and I see the way you're wary around men… I should have known." Okay, none of that seemed to be a single coherent thought, but Steph nodded along, somewhat dumbly, "But I'm here for you… I'm here for you and I am supporting you. You're here and you care, you're more than your circumstance, more than what others expected of you, thought of you and he sees it." Stephanie finds herself crushed against Leslie's chest, her cheek digging into a collarbone because the doc is taller than she is._

" _Um, so you're playing guard dog?" Stephanie can't keep the disbelief from her voice, but it's there and tangent in the air between them with the way Leslie's arms lock around Stephanie and pull her closer, trying to_ _ **will**_ _her into believing in Leslie. Leslie has been a rock, a grandmother, a reliable support since Stephanie has woken up. It is strange to find an adult who pays attention to her, is attentive and gives her stern glares and scolding tones. Yet, Leslie has been so much for Stephanie before she even died, becoming so much_ _ **more**_ _since waking up from being dead._

 _Leslie was_ _ **there**_ _. Granted, how many people would want to be around a corpse being cut up? But Leslie was something. She packed Stephanie up, got them out of the country, gave Stephanie a task, gave her books and purpose. Stephanie doesn't know what she would have done if Leslie hadn't been there, had merely sent her home. Would she have fallen into depression? Stephanie doesn't know, she doesn't think she would have taken her own life but after hearing about the Gang War, the devastation and the lives lost, guilt was there. Heavy and pressing. She was a stupid girl being desperate and she wanted to run away, did run away._

 _Leslie has both hands on Stephanie's face, bringing her back to the conversation at hand and regret reflects in the older woman's eyes and Stephanie thinks her regret is splashed across her own face, but Leslie says nothing about the tears Stephanie can feel slipping out, nearly blurring in front of her vision. There is heaviness here, words not yet said and Stephanie doesn't want the words to escape, not yet. She has a lot she has to figure out, a lot she hasn't totally overcome and it doesn't feel right to unload them here yet._

 _Leslie must have come to a similar conclusion because she's lowered her head and pressing their foreheads together, eyes closed. Stephanie doesn't close her eyes._

" _I'm watching him. I want to have your back, to be in your corner. I_ _ **AM**_ _in_ _ **YOUR**_ _corner. I'm with you." Leslie opens her eyes and pins Steph with a look that the teen has no way of avoiding, "What do you want to do?"_

 _And that is a ball that Stephanie fumbles with, because she has a lot of wants, a lot of needs she needs to deal with first. But in the case of Abraham? She feels hope, feels scared, and feels light and shaky, "He looks at me with hope." Still, it awes her. Because hope is something, is the only beacon of light she had in the worst of times. Hope was all she had when her parents were fighting and locked her in a closet. Hope was all she had when she was escaping hands of strangers reaching for her. Hope was all she had when she hung on the edge of the Bat-clan, waiting to be accepted, to be let in. Hope was all she had when Black Canary was standing there, judging her in deciding whether she wanted to train Steph or not._

 _Hope was all she had when she was running through a warzone, with fire and smoke surrounding her, hell closing in to grab her. Hope was all she had in thinking Jake, Amahle, Leslie and Abraham were still alive, when she believed the rest of the world was ashes._

 _Hope, she patrolled in a Spoiler outfit with hope to make lives of other kids easier to bear. She told the kids, the women on corners to have hope for better. That they can hope for better even in this grim, dark city that they loved and stayed in. Hope was a staple that Stephanie had when she had nothing else._

 _Steph had hope she would be found. She hoped that someone, Batman, Robin, anyone would find her before she could die under the 'care' of Black Mask._

 _Hope is her demon and her angel, giving her claws and wings to continue putting on that Spoiler custom, to work in Africa and come up against conditions that are heartbreaking and desolate._

" _Then maybe give him a chance."_

Leslie's words ring in her head every time Stephanie looks at the older man, studying him as he works in tents, helping and patch up wounds. She is there, watching as he works on fixing a tractor or setting up satellites and cameras to capture pictures of the village, villagers and kids. He provides a laptop to teach a kid to type, one of the youngest ones. He indulges in conversation with elders and leaders, making plans for return trips and asking teachers what they need, what supplies will help in giving these village children a chance of an education. He does not flinch from hands covered in mud, but scoops up more to play, building mud castles. He runs and plays tag, pulled away from his moments of quiet respite. He gives it up easily to show children, creating an area of play, how to make a dam with natural sources that are limited. He makes it a game, even as he teaches, as he imparts knowledge to help themselves, to be thinkers and innovators. Leslie watches, her hard looks dimming, becoming softer and looking to Steph.

' _I have your back. I_ _ **AM**_ _in_ _ **YOUR**_ _corner._ '

The words push her and Stephanie moves from her spot, perched on the hood of a truck that has stayed dormant for their time here. There are others, watching as a game progresses and Abraham is paused in place, swiping his brow with a rag he pulled out of a pocket of one of his khaki shorts. She approaches and he is alert, aware, smiling and welcoming and a lump is forming in her throat, threatening to push forward, but she smiles and finds it is not strained. The laughter and smiles of the village children are infectious, screams of delight creating an atmosphere of light and play. She has been grinning and laughing along with others, watching the small football – she knows it as soccer – game that was pulled together with the afternoon sun and heat fading to give away to a cooler evening breeze.

She has a water bottle in her hand, cool with condensation running down the sides of the frosted plastic and she offers it to him, "You look like you need a refresher coach." Her tone is teasing, blithe and she thinks she should be, again, surprised, but she's not focusing on it. Stephanie, instead, focuses on the way the warmth spreads from his eyes, infusing in his expression and making the glint of his russet hues sparkle with flecks of gold. He takes the offered bottle, but doesn't immediately open it, his expression shifts to something curious and she thinks she reads what he wants to ask.

"I think I could get use to you." She mutters something only for him and her to hear and his brow quirks, but his smile grows to a grin that makes him seem years younger.

"I would like that." He says back, just before someone pulls and tugs on his arm to get him back into the game. His eyes are on Steph though, so she waves at him.

"Catch ya by the fire later." It is a promise, a form of acceptance with how she has kept her distance from him, so she turns and walks away. She is no longer limping and her leg is fine as long as she doesn't push too hard. She doesn't see his face, but Leslie is waiting for her, smirking and Amahle, finally showing up, is there too.

"Fo'ging yoa' own path, my kindwed. You cwoss a new futa', one ente'ly yoa' own." Amahle is wispy words and wise, elderly arms that enfold her. The smoky form of her accent washes over Stephanie, caressing her as two different colored arms twine around her to submerge her into the elderly women's embrace.

"Mə̀ nō nòr lòbó gònɛ̀ wù." Stephanie's words are bit stumbled, off, shaky and she is glad to see Amahle's gaze go wide before the woman's eyes spark with pleasure.

"Been leawning the Nja'p, my kindwed? You make me 'appy." Steph can only return the smile and close her eyes, leaning her head into Amahle's shoulder. Right now, she's just happy. There is a lot of shit in her head, a lot she has to think about and puzzle, but she's going to just let the knots unravel as she goes.

It's something she's been learning and doing since she started this journey.

* * *

She has to get away, has to find some place out of here. She's made enemies, killed and she's not sorry.

Not sorry. Can't be when she remembers her brother, dead and young; she feels rage, hot and sizzling beneath her skin. It threatens to reach up and swallow her, but she knows her usual methods of escaping, of fleeing aren't going to do her any good. She has power at her fingertips, to go and do, pilfer and recreate. The tricks are something she wants to keep on the down low, wants to hide because if she alerts too many people to what she can do, what she is capable of then she is likely going to close off her exits, her opportunities and she's got plans.

She wants to meet _her_. She's got into enough secrets to know of a way of triggering the alarm, of making a titan move, to send who she wants and needs to meet in order to get closer.

Skin of mocha is lined with markings, colorful diamonds of red and black, with a face of pasty white etched onto her skin, intermixed with other designs. Her dark eyes are hidden behind lenses, as she waits in line, glancing behind her.

She has someone following her. She tipped off the wrong people about herself, about what she can do.

She found information, a travelling group that'll take her away from Kenya, away from the place of her home, the gang she has worked for and possibly erasing herself from the scene to get whoever was coming for her off her back.

"Ready to head to Central Africa Republic, young lady?" The voice at her front asks, sounding slightly British and she turns, willing herself to smile and not snarl, she's on edge and needs to get the fuck out of here.

"You betcha!" She infused a bit of her idol's personality here, smiling sunshine and rainbows, megawatt smile. She leans forward, eager, ready and rearing to go. The person who had been speaking before had jumped, but was now grinning at her, pleased.

She forces herself to not appear impatient. Dark, lush lips spread wider to show her teeth in a smile that is beaming, like those white cheerleaders in those American movies, the one's she sees in the posters for those who can afford to go to the theaters or can own things like tapes and televisions.

"You'll do good work, miss…?"

"Zalika." She says before she can think about it, but that's all she is willing to say. She has the papers, forged and fixed. Africa's paperwork systems is not always the best and having any paperwork on a person here is a blessing, no matter how little is there.

"I'm sure you'll do good work there, Zalika." Whatever can get whoever it is off her tail works.

* * *

I'm sorry for how long this took me. I got stuck because Jake didn't want to say goodbye, but he needed too.

I also had to sit back and check myself on this fic because I have a big plan for this. Africa is a bit of a part one where, mostly, it goes by. A lot of the Africa portion is on the road and doing daily, routine tasks and I fear people are thinking I'm rushing this. I do plan a slow build but I don't want to make things boring with just doing boring shit. When events are happening, especially in the growth of Stephanie, I want to show those moments and I am doing the combination of telling/showing the passage of time with trying to sprinkle in Stephanie learning and training.

After Africa, I plan on a few things going down, but I also want Steph to meet other people, people that will have impact on the story down the line. So far, Steph learning, training and healing is an arc in itself.

Reminder: This is not going to be anywhere near canon-compliant. And what Stephanie thinks in one chapter is liable to change in another chapter.

I've had a message regarding the concern about Steph's stance on killing. We all think we come to an answer, but I know I've changed my mind on stances as things happen. As I grow and must come to more realistic conclusions.

So keep that in mind, just because Steph thinks one thing now, doesn't mean she will later. I want to give Steph growth. I want her to confront demons and continuously do so. There is no one sitting and everything is cured, these are on-going issues she deals with and more will come and add on to what she has to work through. Some things get easier, some things can get harder.

I thank you all for the support thus far and I hope to get chapter six out far soon than it took me to get this latest chapter out.

This last part is not Steph, I hadn't planned on introducing someone till next chapter, but I was on a spark of inspiration and I let it fly, had too. Let me know what you think, thank you.


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